Bioshock: The Novel
by Switch01
Summary: My interpretation of a Bioshock novel! Strong T for violence, possibly M later on. R and R! Please and thank you. :)
1. The Flight

Hey there, readers!

Switch is back! Jeez, I haven't written anything here in ages. I suppose life after graduation will do that to you. XD

Welcome to my comeback story, Bioshock: The Novel!

A little bit of explanation here: I replayed Bioshock recently for nostalgia's sake, and realized just how awesome of a game it was. I fell in love with everything from the story to the characters, and my imagination just took off. While writing a Bioshock novel might be fun to write (and read hopefully), reading a page by page transcript of the game could predictably get tedious. So what you are about to read is Bioshock . . .with a twist. There are some new OC's joining the cast and some events taking place that didn't take place in the original game.

I do not own any Bioshock; only my OC's. Hopefully I can do it justice. My understanding of the universe comes from research via the Bioshock Wiki.

* * *

"Have you got everything you need?"

"_Mum. _Mum, look. I'm nineteen, I've got it." I pick up my sack (the only carry-on I have), slinging it over my shoulder.

"Emma, the boy can take care of himself." Dad laughs unconvincingly, wrapping an arm around Mum's shoulder.

"Oh, hush, Jim, I know that. It's just . . .my little boy's all grown up! Going away from home for the first time!" Mum looks up at me, and I smile back, trying to convince her to calm down. I never was a short kid, but I had grown at a surprising rate, making me now a fair height taller than her. Time has worn her face, but not unflatteringly; A short woman with a sweet face, an upturned nose, and green eyes that are always smiling. My Dad is about my height, but he's a hearty man with a stern face. Not to say he doesn't smile, but he's one of manual labor and a good work ethic. As such, he's trained me to be a good, down-to-Earth man by this point.

The few of the Wynand clan that are actually within reach are seeing me off at the San Francisco airport. Yeah, I guess I'm a little nervous since I've never flown before, but I'm not about to tell her that. I look at the crinkled little piece of paper in my hand again.

Apollo Airlines, Seat 43 B; A one way flight San Francisco to London for August 19, 1960. I'll admit I've read the ticket over a thousand times, convinced that somehow I wouldn't know the information and maybe get on the wrong flight or something, that _any_thing might go wrong; seeing as I'm standing _at _the gate, though, about to walk onto the plane, I finally force myself to breath out. All I have to do is endure the flight to England. Mum and Dad organized a visit with his cousins as a surprise for graduating school with honors, paid for and everything. For someone who's never been beyond his doorstep, predictably it's an undeniable offer. My aunt and uncle apparently paid for the ticket back, so I'm only responsible for my wallet full of spending money and getting myself there.

"Last boarding call for Flight 301 to London!" A stewardess calls from behind the counter, and my heart slides to my throat slightly. Out of nowhere, I give my parents a tight hug, readjusting my bag. It's not like I won't see them again, but there's something in my throat that's rooting me to the spot.

"I'll send you guys a postcard, eh?" I try to chuckle in spite of my nerves. My parents merely bite their lips and smile. Before I regret anything, I turn, heading for the door, but someone pulls me back.

"Oh, before I forget!" Dad pulls a small box out of his jacket, a nicely wrapped package with a bow and a tag. "A graduation present for you; for being such a good kid. Try to resist opening it till you get on the plane, hm?" Dad winks, and I grin.

"I'll do my best."

"Now go on before you miss the plane!"

I must turn and look over my shoulder at least five or six times as I walk down the jetway, watching until I turn the corner to climb through the hatch into the plane. I absentmindedly hand the ticket to the stewardess on duty, and she smiles at me congenially.

"Coach, middle row, Mister Wynand."

Still a little shaky, I lug my things with me through the first class to the more crowded part of the plane. It's certainly not first-class, but I'm not going to complain. I'm not much for luxury.

After managing to shove my sack into the overhead compartment, I slip past the older woman who's reading a copy of _National Geographic _and sink into my seat.

"This is your Captain Harry Smicket speaking. We're looking at roughly a thirteen hour flight, folks. Weathers lookin' all clear ahead for the time being, low turbulence, so we're gonna be takin' off in the next couple minutes. If you could secure your belongings, make sure your seats are in the upright position, and we'll be out of here in no time. Thank you again for flying with Apollo Air, smoothest ride in the skies!"

Leaning back in my seat, I stare out the window, trying to push my stomach nerves somewhere else. It's drizzly and cloudy outside, drips on the window sparkling with the lights from the airport terminal.

As the ground sinks away from my vision, so does my stress. I . . .I might actually be excited for this! Well, that's stupid, I guess I _should _be. It's not every day I get to leave the country _or _see extended family. From the pictures my parents had shown me, England's a beautiful place, not too unlike the states except in cuisine and accent, of course.

As I drift into a nap, my mind starts to slip from topic to foggy topic. Fish and chips with new friends, maybe even a boat trip to France, if I'm lucky, on the new ferry my aunt said they had got running . . .

_SMACK._

My dream of ferries and fish are interrupted by a sudden jolt. I fall out of my sleep, gripping the arm of my chair uncomfortably. How long was that? Ten minutes? An hour? A quick check out the window shows it was dark. No lights anywhere . . .I guess we're over the ocean by now. My seatmate's snoring softly, her _National Geographic _opened on the ground.

Bored, I reach slowly for the magazine. She probably won't mind if I pass the time. The dim cabin light permits me to read a paragraph or so on an article about a new type of sea-slug that had been discovered off the coast of Iceland whose slime's being collected for research.

Sea slime; I try not to roll my eyes. They'll do anything for an article. I've never been a huge fan of biology in school; science at all, really. Math had been more up my ally. I've dabbled in music, decent with a guitar but unfortunately unblessed in the vocal area. Placing the magazine back at my companion's side, I sigh. For some reason I'm feeling restless. My long day of travel is physically wearing on me, I can feel it; but out of nowhere my mind has started to race, heart pounding like someone's given me a shot of adrenaline. I've eaten dinner, had a cup of coffee the hostess had offered . . .Dad had said something about the plane ride. What was it . . .right. The present. I suppose that couldn't hurt. Maybe it'll be a book or something to satiate me.

I stand, attempting to dodge the splayed legs of my companion in the cramped space, but accidentally wake her up, causing her to grumble unpleasantly.

"Would you _kindly _get back to your seat?" she sniffs tiredly, scratching her dark curls moodily. "Some of us are _trying_ to sleep."

"Sorry ma'am." I apologize so quietly she can't hear my sarcastic tone, and I pull my package out of the compartment. I fall back to my seat again, the woman drifting back to sleep and accidentally smearing lipstick on her hand.

Stifling a bitter chuckle, I refocus my attention on the present. The blue foiled wrapping twinkles in the light like ocean waves, the red bow like a silky island in the middle of sea we're flying over. I pull the bow which slides out like silk, and out falls a tag with handwriting on it.

_To Jack_

_With love from Mum & Dad,_

_Would you kindly not open until the flight?_

_X O X O_

I smile, biting my lip, eyes burning slightly. I'm gonna miss them, to say the least. I go to open the package, but the woman next to me reaches up and turns out the light moodily, blinding me for a second as my vision adjusts.

The package is then only illuminated by the moonlight, casting shadows on the penned note. Moonbeams dance off the shining paper, teasing the edge of the silken ribbon on the top. Something about the whole sight is dreamlike, and minute by minute I suddenly find myself unexplainably tired, like all of the day's stress has just hit me at once. A solid yawn tells me I'm not staying awake, even for another two minutes. I'll open it when the suns out, it'll be easier and I won't be struggling to read it.

What could one nap hurt?

* * *

I thought it best to start from the very beginning, so I gave a bit of a prologue to where the game starts off.

Reviews and CONSTRUCTIVE criticism are very appreciated. Please no hate comments, there is a difference. :) Please and thank you.

SPOILERS FOR THE GAME AND EXPLANATION:

I am aware of Jack's actual last name, but this was the "programmed" last name listed on his passport before the crash. I assume that his real name came to light as the game's events progressed, so I started there for full effect. :3


	2. A Lighthouse?

_"Excuse me sir, could you please make your way back to your seat? For the courtesy of other passengers we . . .sir? Sir, what are . . .oh my god. Someone call the Air Mar-AGHH!"_

Dreams are funny things. Sometimes they can be realistic, sometimes they're other-worldy. And sometimes they're both, and it's so wild that it makes the mind queasy.

Words echo in my mind, and it's so vivid it's more like a daydream.

My visions of riding a ferry across the ocean to a strangely out of scale Eiffel Tower are laced with strange voices and goings on. It sounds like someone on the ship is panicking . . . someone's in danger. But if I'm not dreaming, what if something's wrong on the plane? Can I help?

"_Would you kindly open the door?" _A pleasant voice echoes in the back of my mind, like my mother's voice when I was little. Soothing, guiding, always knowing what was right. Open the door. I can do that.

The hazy scenery of the dream is dizzying. The sky's a strange greenish blue, the clouds fluttering by, scattering as I reach for them and regrouping farther away like a school of fish. I can't even begin to find the sun . . .only a brighter splotch of greeny-blue somewhere above my head. Below me, the water is a murky brown-red like river silt, the water bubbling like kettle froth.

Panicking and starting to feel sea-sick from my own daydreams, I run fruitlessly across the ferry deck, and it all of a sudden starts to grow impossibly long, the door to the inside of the ship escaping me with every stride. I desperately want to get to the screaming passenger, unwilling to stomach her cries.

"_OPEN THE DOOR, WOULD YOU KINDLY?" _The voice suddenly demands louder, scolding me like a child, and with a grunt and a last leap I jump for the door with superhuman strength and yank it open.

The minute the blurry-visioned door opens the atmosphere changes. The warm, pacifying breeze I was feeling is replaced by gale-force icy winds, suffocating suction as if someone has placed a vacuum cleaner in my mind. The strange color of the sky turns bluish-black, and the water turned a dismal dark gray, flecked only with sparkles from what I had thought was the sun . . .but seems to actually be the moon.

The body of the hostess who had offered me coffee has fallen out, a hole in the chest, blue uniform covered with dark red blossoms. _Blood_?

Suddenly, I realize with paralyzing horror that I have slipped out of my dream, and the body at my feet _isn't _my imagination. The boots my father had given me the day before my departure are drenched in it . . .and my stomach curdles, the scent of it suddenly filling my nose.

I stumble back with a cry, and when I turn around I realize the entire cabin of the plane is full of horrified people who are hunched over in their seats, hands over their heads, staring at me as if I'm a monster.

I desperately want to say something to them, to explain that I have nothing to do with this, but my words come out slurred like I'm drunk. "I . . .I can fix it . . .I'll do it. It's fine . . ."

"_Open the door, kid. That'll get you where you need to go. Open the door, would you kindly?"_

The pleasant request from that voice in the back of my mind sends me sprinting forwards to the side door of the plane. Someone has faith in me . . .perhaps I can stop this. The controls are simple enough. I could save everyone's life on this plane. I'd be a hero.

I reach out, grabbing the cool metal of the latch, and pull back with all my strength, the mechanism coming loose with the ease of a knife coming out of butter. For some reason, though, all the people have started screaming again. My ears pop, and my vision wavers, making me want to curl up and sleep again.

"_Go to sleep, kid. You've done great." _The voice in my head praises me. Maybe it's my conscience. When I wake up, I'll be a hero, and everything will be fine. A wide, drunken smile grows on my face. I _have_ saved them all. But then why does it all feel so wrong?

* * *

That's it. I'm not sleeping any more. I _have _to get up.

As if on cue, the gentle descent in my stomach brings me to already; barely. My drowsy mind connects the sensation with landing. Are we there already? Thirteen hours; that didn't seem like a long trip at all.

I open my sore eyes to look out the window . . .and screamed.

Oh, I'm descending alright, but there's just one little thing missing: The _plane._

I'm in complete freefall in the open air, falling at what feels like a million miles an hour towards the roaring sea. I scream again, a deep throated, hoarse cry of fear that's stolen by the freezing wind that whips past me, bruising my skin. Oh god, oh god, what . . .I don't know how it happened. I try to twist in the air as I panic, looking around for something to grab on to, but there's nothing but air slipping through my clawing fingers. Thinking in last resorts, I struggle and flail to turn myself over to look at the sky above me, and then suddenly wish I hadn't.

Behind me is a meteor shower of debris. Suitcases, clothes, papers, toys, anything you can think of. Each object is illuminated by a fireball as bright as the sun: the wreckage of Apollo Air's Flight 301.

_HOW?! _I slept through a god-damn plane crash! Unless someone drugged me, that doesn't seem humanly possible. Worst of all, the lack of noise forces me to make the assumption that a majority, if not all, of my fellow passengers have perished.

For one split second, my world stops turning.

At this moment, all my hope may be lost.

This isn't something I can think my way out of.

I'm hurdling through the air like a projectile, doomed to hit the frigid surface of the Atlantic Ocean. It has to be the middle of the night, early morning at _least_. No signs of sunrise or even a coast are visible. No islands, no sandbars, just water as far as the eye can see. There are no other survivors as far as I can tell. My belongings, right down to my passport, have been lost in the wreckage most likely. Even if I were, by some miracle, to be rescued I wouldn't even have any-

_SLAM!_

My freefalling thoughts came to a screeching halt as I crash-land painfully in the waves of the Atlantic Ocean. My mind is flooded, both figuratively and literally. I'm suddenly frozen in place, unable to even budge a muscle in the icy liquid. I feel like my whole body is glass; any movement might just cause my limbs to snap off painfully. The water seeps through my thin jumper and pants, only my feet being mostly spared by my thick boots.

"_I know you aren't that dumb; do something for me, would you kindly? Survive." _The voice is back, and suddenly I'm hesitant to listen to _any_thing it has to say. Conscience or not, the last time I took it's advice I ended up in a thousand foot skydive. Conscience . . .I'm hearing voices. Who says I'm not delusional? Maybe I'm just hearing things.

Regardless, though, if I have any chance of survival, it won't be floating here. I start paddling frantically, arms reaching sorely as high as they'll go to break the surface.

Survive. Survive. My mind is somehow operating on a one track system, survival the sole objective.

Soon enough, one bare arm reaches the surface and I break through, gulping in air gratefully. My sore legs keep paddling, but my arms take a tiny break, allowing my body to gain a little bit of energy.

Slowly but surely, the world starts spinning again, centimeter by centimeter. Reality kicks in along with logic, all though chocolate-coated with an awful sense of hopelessness. I might feel a little better if I remembered anything leading up to the disaster . . .but being my typical self I had to go and _sleep _through the hijacking of a damn airplane_ I _had been a passenger on! Who even _does _that?

For a moment, I just drift, legs slowly becoming numb in the icy ocean.

I'm not even sure if it's the sea water or tears that are dripping down my cheeks and making my eyes sting; maybe both. I feel like I want to cry. Never in my life have I felt more alone or hopeless. What I wouldn't give right here, right now for a hand to hold or at least another pair of eyes to stare in to.

My only solace comes from the most unlikeliest of places: The fact that I'll probably die.

In this water, my body temperature will drop like a brick. I'll probably freeze within the next twenty minutes. Then at least my suffering will be over. I won't be lonely . . .I'll go wherever people go after they die; I've never been particularly religious. And even if I did believe, I'd find it hard to believe that anyone in the universe would have wished this upon me. I

I've never done anything "bad", no bad "karma" I can think of. Perhaps it's just a terrible case of very bad luck.

Either way, I wish that the water would just take me alrea-

_BANG!_

As if on command, I'm sucked under the surface, back down into the darkness. I blink a few times underwater, and manage to just kick out of the way of a massive piece of shrapnel: the tail wing of the plane. The wreckage has finally caught up to me and is now pummeling the surface, lighting up the seafloor with explosions of red and yellow. Out of nowhere the last bit of energy that I'm harboring sails from my kicking legs, making me limp. Droplets of red and orange sparkle in my vision, the heat from the fiery bubbles below heating the water.

I lay back, closing my eyes and waiting for the last dregs of energy to die.

"_Swim."_

Damn it.

My mind is alive while my body is clearly dead. I frown, angry that my brain doesn't have the decency to accept the death I'd been asking for.

_Bump. Bump._

I bitterly open my eyes; I'm slumped over an evidently airtight suitcase that the sea hasn't devoured in its hungry feeding. Every bump brings a slight dose of pain to my arm joint, like someone bumping it with the butt of a knife.

"_Come in"._

In. Ha. Now I've heard it all. There is no _in_: just the open air, a suitcase, and the soggy, sour excuse for a survivor on top of it.

"Y- . . ." I start to sputter, coughing up ocean water, but realize that the sea must have claimed my sanity too because there's no one to talk to. "Y-you're crazy."

"_Come _in_, would you kindly?"_ I sigh, butting my head irritably against the suitcase.

Inside anywhere is better than on top of this soggy suitcase I suppose.

Suddenly, something sparkles in my peripheral vision, and I look up, mouth dropping open.

The voice, it appears, has not been misguided; I've just been very inattentive.

The steady bumping against my arm was a slimy stone wall. The wall is a foundation to the tallest lighthouse I have _ever_ seen in my life. There had been a couple around San Francisco I'd seen on my ride to the airport, but this one seems a hell of a lot more . . .sinister? Maybe that isn't the correct word, but it certainly isn't the picture of hospitality. It looks more like a giant fortress: No windows, no signs, nothing. Still, I want in.

I don't know what's come over me lately. I'm almost certain that I'm delusional, hearing voices every ten minutes, sleeping through explosions. In my gut, though, something is steering me towards that damned lighthouse, and I'm getting in there one way or another.

I reluctantly let go of the suitcase and trade my handhold for the slippery stone of the enormous alien structure. Somewhere up on top through the rain and the wind, I can see a light on top. If there is a light, something or someone must be keeping it lit. If that's the case and someone's up there, maybe all hope isn't lost.

Slowly and painfully I waddle up the slippery steps, finding my way to flat-level stone after about two minutes of climbing. With a quick look around, the entire circumference of the lighthouse could be walked in roughly three minutes or so. The only entrance I find is an enormous pair of double-doors that must be at least fifty feet high, if not more. The moonlight lights up a ghostly but admittedly beautiful design etched on the bronze slabs: a statuesque figure with its arms rising to the heavens. I swear I've seen it somewhere before; this _is _a lighthouse, maybe it's a company logo or something.

Even better: The door's _open. _Not all the way, but the doors are separated, leaving just enough space for a small person to squeeze through. I'm just about to wrestle my way through but stop before reaching for the lip. How do I know what's even in there, or _who, _for that matter? There aren't any lights on down here . . .I could just be setting myself up for another disaster.

"_What are you waiting on? Enter, would you kindly? We've been waiting on you."_

Okay. Now I _know _that one wasn'ta delusion. I heard that alert, awake, and distinctly using a plural vocabulary. _We_?

Without another question, I jam myself between the doors, eager to get inside.

At first I'm so confused by the change in temperature that I barely notice the door close behind me. The air inside the lighthouse is damp and warm, prompting me to collapse against the wall and take a breather. I'm about to fall apart.

I can hear water still lapping the stone outside, the wind whipping around the structure.

I'm not exactly unsettled by the darkness, but the fact that the door won't budge, even with my full weight, doesn't make me happy.

"Hello?" I call out to the darkness, flinching as my voice comes out louder than anticipated. It reverberates off the walls, crackly and hoarse after my encounter with the salty ocean water.

As if on cue, the entire vicinity illuminates at once, causing me to jump in surprise from the sudden influx of light. The entire room comes to life around me: the sound of motors kicking to life, doors creaking, water splashing, and electricity humming like a hoard of angry bees. The entire lighthouse is resurrected from its watery demise at my first word. Recovering from the sudden outburst, I turn around and nearly fall over from shock.

Staring down at me is the grotesque bust of a man etched in gold. It's impeccably realistic, right down to the stress wrinkles in the forehead and the disapproving eyes which bore into my head. The bust looms over a decorative fountain, which too has come to life, trickling softly. A scarlet banner hangs above the head, printed with glittering gold letters.

_NO GODS OR KINGS. ONLY MAN._

I'm rooted to the spot for about thirty seconds, fascinated by the entire display; partially surprised by the fact that such an elaborate setup is in such an obscure location, and partially by the meaning of the words.

No gods or kings . . . only man. Admirable . . .kind of. He looks haughty enough to be a leader; I wonder if they were his words. It's ironic that a man who didn't believe in glorification would have a giant golden bust of his head put on display. On the edge of the fountain is a small plaque with another quote.

_"In what country is there a place for a man like me?" – Andrew Ryan_

I put two and two together and figure the bust is of this Andrew Ryan character.

"Bold words for someone who owns a lighthouse . . ." I mutter to myself flatly. Even more ironically, I can hear faint strains of a song coming from speakers that are mounted in the "corners" of the room. A weepy violin plays the melody of "Somewhere Beyond the Sea". I recognize the song immediately as one Mum used to sing all the time as she did dishes or cleaned the house, and I can't help but sing along.

Once I finish my observation of the lobby, I resolve to start looking for something that's actually useful.

Lucky for me this place looked pretty well maintained; odds are someone comes out and does maintenance once and a while for something that looks this spiffy. Hopefully I'll be found in no time.

"_Come down, would you kindly?" _I blink a couple of times, rubbing the back of my head, shaking water and dirt out of my dark hair. So the voice has decided to stick around! If it lead me to this kind of hospitality, I can't see any reason not to follow its advice; for _now, _at least.

I meander around the fountain and find that the wall isn't solid. There's a walkway back deeper into the lighthouse, stairs descending below the main level and out of sight. My tug of curiosity pulls me like a fish on a hook down the stairs, past the wrought-iron artwork of suns and waves on the wall, and down to a peculiar sight.

The floor gives way to a large pool of dirty water. Inside the water is a craft bobbing innocently in the gentle lapping waves coming in from outside.

_Bathysphere_. The word jumps into my mind out of nowhere. I _know_ I've seen one of these before, whether it was in a book or the news or what have it; bathysphere is definitely the only suitable name. Steam comes from the water like a boiling kettle, and a quick hand to the metal reveals that the craft is very much active, warm and purring like a docile animal.

"Well, I'm here." I shout moodily, crossing my arms and looking around. No one's here, only the bathysphere. Suddenly, I step back as the hatch to the bathysphere opens, gentle heat rushing from the lush interior. A large velvet bench seat stretches around the circumference of the vehicle. A shaft in the middle is adorned with what looks like a form of steering, and the light inside is blinking gently, enticing its non-existent passengers to board the vessel.

The gist of where this is going hits me like a sack of bricks, and I back away as if the water will grab my feet and drag me forwards.

"Oh man, okay, no." I say, wondering if the voice can hear me. "If you think I'm getting in that rust bucket you've got another thing-"

"_Would you kindly come down? We've been waiting for you." _The voice _can _hear me, evidently, and it's suddenly sick sweet tone has my thoughts wrapped around its little finger. Is it that much of a hassle? I sigh, looking back up the stairs for good measure and warily climbing into the large cab of the bathysphere. I must be crazy.

The music still plays inside the craft even after the transparent hatch has sealed, leaving me trapped inside like a bug in a glass. Faster than I can blink, the craft begins to shake and drift gently away from the dock, sinking into the water. I put a hand to the warm glass, leaving a handprint smudge. It feels thick enough, but how deep will it go before the water takes hold? I might be young, but I understand basic science: These things are deep sea vessels. If _I_, the only passenger, have no clue how to drive it, how deep will it go before the pressure crushes it?

I put a hand to the steering mechanism, attempting to turn the handle, but it's jammed in place, turning on occasion of its own accord. Maybe it's automatic; maybe it'll take me back to land or at least some outpost where I can find some people to help. My only company is a radio on the wall whose panel is dark; dead anyway.

"Oh, you better be going somewhere good with this." I grumble, slumping back against the velvet cushions as the bathysphere disappears beneath the waves, leaving the surface behind.


	3. Splicer Meat

I'm probably gonna stop here for tonight (jeez it's 1:30 in the morning already XP ).

I . . .don't have much to say here honestly except that the character of Ginny was based upon actress Ashley Leggat. ( )

She was always one of my favorites after Life with Derek and I couldn't get her image out of my head. Besides, I can't stop picturing her without a French accent. :P

Without further ado, enjoy Chapter 3 and thanks for reading! :)

* * *

10 fathoms.

18 fathoms.

I'm not a sailor, and I honestly don't know how many leagues go into a fathom, but 20,000 of them or not, I wouldn't be surprised after everything that has happened so far if a giant squid attacked this thing. I'm not really as nervous or afraid as I am miffed that I am being "led" (more like slightly manipulated) by my own damn instincts. A look back on my decisions since the plane crash: What in the hell had I been _thinking_? I escaped that plane crash with my life, and have just gone and put myself in danger _again_. I don't consciously have a death wish, but I can't even recall the thoughts that had made this seem even close to being a good idea. As much as I hate the situation, I can't turn back now, so I take the opportunity to "enjoy" the ride.

About five minutes after I'd been left in the dark of the ocean, the hum of electronics caught my attention almost instantly. I look around now, attempting to stand but falling unsteadily with the floating of the water. A flimsy screen lowers from somewhere in the ceiling, covering the "window" in the hatch.

Suddenly, the screen brightens to life, an old movie reel clicking to a start. A logo appears on the screen; the same logo from the door! This has got to give me some clues. I sit cross-legged on the bench seat and watch the presentation eagerly, hoping to finally get some answers.

Another advertisement takes the place of the logo: an attractive man and woman sitting at a table. The woman's finger is . . .well, it's on _fire,_lighting the cigarette of the man who doesn't seem to give two hoots.

"_Fire at your fingertips! INCINERATE: Plasmids by Ryan Industries"_

Ryan. _Ryan._There's that name again. I tuck the name in the back of my mind for later probing. Joyful music starts to play from the speakers, and suddenly the portrait of a man sitting in an arm chair smoking a pipe comes into view. The words "_From the desk of Andrew Ryan_!" frame the picture. Thinking fast, I quickly memorize the image; I have a feeling I'll be seeing a lot more of this Ryan guy. Dark hair, a well trimmed little mustache, smiling eyes; the man's the epitome of charm, and he knows it.

"_I'm Andrew Ryan, and I'm here to ask you a question: Is a man not entitled to the sweat of his brow? No, says the man in Washington, it belongs to the poor. No, says the man in the Vatican, it belongs to God. No says the man in Moscow, it belongs to everyone!"_

It's propaganda at its finest, but everyone's entitled to their view. I've never been an extremist of any sort, and that leads me to wonder one particular question: what exactly _do_I believe in?

Well, what does any moral person believe in; Fairness or equality, at least the idea that the product of someone's work belongs to them. This Ryan, while seemingly a bit manipulative, does make some good points. At his roots he seems to be a good guy.

"_I rejected those answers. Instead, I chose something different. I chose the impossible. I chose . . .Rapture."_

Rapture? I cock an eyebrow, confused as to what Ryan's talking about, but my question is quickly answered . . .you aren't going to believe this.

The screen folded back up into the ceiling, Ryan's recording still filling the Bathysphere. What I'm seeing is simply impossible.

A _city_. There's . . .there's an entire . . .an entire damn city on the ocean floor! And not a metaphorical sea-life city . . .a metropolis! I face is suddenly pressed against the cold glass like a child in a candy store, eyes wide as dinner plates, mouth agape. It's like someone's taken half of San Francisco and sealed it to the ocean floor. Instead of cars and trolleys, fish and squid and whales and sea creatures of every sort soar in between the coral encrusted buildings. Perhaps the most incredible thing about this whole scenario is that in the buildings, the lights are on. There's shadows moving about, which means. . .there are people here! There are people _living_in this city, this . . .Rapture, on the bottom of the ocean! I have to applaud this Andrew Ryan for his innovation. He has in fact accomplished the impossible, and all while staying completely out of the public eye. As if sensing my enthusiasm, Andrew Ryan's recording continues with fervor.

"_A city where the artist would not fear the censor. Where the scientist would not be bound by petty morality. Where the great would not be constrained by the small. And with the sweat of your brow, Rapture can become your city too."_

After everything that's happened in the past hour, I can't say I don't like the sound of that. What luck: I didn't just find an outpost, I found an entire civilization! When I get back to the surface . . .I don't even know. I'll have to take pictures . . . surely there has to be a store here.

Various neon signs light up the outsides of the water, names of clubs and restaurants, among other things. Where had this Andrew Ryan been on the surface . . .his views could have changed the world.

Suddenly, the bathysphere's pace begins to slow, lowering towards the bottom of one of the buildings. A small flow of suction sucks up the vessel, carrying it through a small tube track that's outlined with glowing hopeful words.

"_All good things of the Earth flow into the city."_

My heart lifts slightly, and I stand from my seat, eager to reach "land" so I can finally talk to someone. Even more than sharing my own story, I'm ridiculously eager to hear about the life of someone who has made their home on the ocean floor. Thinking quickly I yank off my jumper, flesh almost immediately harboring goosebumps from the cold air, wring the cloth out and replace it, running my hands through my thin hair to try and look like I'm not some form of organism that's just crawled out of a bush.

The bathysphere rises up the pipe, water draining and echoing in the metal cylinder.

When it finally jams to a stop, it's darker than I'd expected. The hatch doesn't open, and I search the edges for a lever . . .or at least a light switch. Both inside my bathysphere and in the lobby outside the ship, it's nearly impossible to see my own hands in front of me.

"Someone's coming up the sphere!" A voice catches my attention. The noise is coming from outside; at least someone's here! For a city with such a grand reputation they don't have much of a welcome party. It's the sound of a man's voice, young by the sounds of it; older than me but in his early twenties maybe. I still can't see anything outside the window, which is starting to fog with condensation.

There's one problem that puts this whole scenario out of perspective: The voice outside doesn't sound particularly happy. In fact, he sounds downright terrified.

The thought suddenly crosses my mind that I might be better off with the hatch closed . . .

"Johnny, come on, lad! Security's going haywire!" There's a second voice to follow the first, one of an Irish bur. Not outside, but closer . . .coming from the radio. I wander over to the radio curiously, putting the receiver up to my ear gently. The station itself is off, but the signal from whatever the guy outside is carrying linked with my radio inside.

"Hey! Can you hear me?" I ask into the contraption, trying to get my words over the line.

The conversation continues taking place without me; I'm just about to bang on the window, but think better of it when another figure joins the act. This Johnny kid emerges into the very dim light that's brought only by the neon lights outside the window. He's thin but tall, and limping as if something's seriously damaged his leg. He nears the bathysphere and I try waving at him . . .but he doesn't see me, or the other figure coming up behind him.

This new shadow is grotesque, bent out of shape, like someone's gone and snapped the limbs the wrong way. Even from inside this thing, I start to hear the scarily inhuman growls coming from it. I start pounding on the glass with all my might, trying to get "Johnny's" attention.

"Behind you!" I scream at him, but the kid sees it too late. He turns on his heel, and suddenly starts backing away _towards_my craft. He's pleading.

"Lady, look, please. What do you want? Money? Food?" Johnny, now sobbing horribly, tosses whatever he has in his bloodied pants pockets. "JUST LEAVE ME ALONE, YOU CRAZY MONSTER!" He takes one last dive at the bathysphere where I'm hidden, but doesn't make it far enough. I can't look away, watching in horror as the silhouette of the "woman" pounces, sailing through the air and planting its feet straight in the back of her target, easily breaking his spine if not killing him on impact. She then goes on to brutally massacre her prey with the knife-like tool she has in her hand.

Shocked, dizzy, and sickened to the point of nausea (although too curious to look away), I watch as the lumpy shadow rips the flesh of the body open, carelessly tossing the innards about as if she's tossing packaging peanuts away, looking for the real prize. After a minute or so, she screeched unpleasantly, obviously dissatisfied with whatever Johnny had to offer. She stands, her full silhouette revealing her to maybe be a 5'7'' or 5'8'', and starts to wander away. Jesus. I don't know what just happened, but the entire scene and my impression of this place has been turned on its head. I start trying to back away from the hatch and into the shadows to see if I can reverse the controls on this thing, but when she stops, I stop, heart pounding. She heard even the noise of my terrified footsteps, and to my horror, she's drawn back to the main door where I'm hiding.

That ugly limp grotesque limp makes me want to vomit whatever little food I have in my stomach, but I try to convince myself that she can't get in here if I can't get out.

"Is it someone neeeeewwww?" It's a woman alright, but similar to her appearance, her voice is bitter, raspy, slimy, and waterlogged. She can sense me in here, and all of a sudden seems adamant on cracking it like a nut to get to the prey inside: me. She flings herself into the air, landing nimbly on top of the bathysphere. I want to yell and shout and scream and try to scare the thing away, but common sense tells me to try and make as little noise as possible as I work desperately to shunt the main hatch open. The scratching and biting of the monster outside stirs an animalistic fear inside of me; if it gets inside, even at my size and stature I know who would win. Frantic, I pick up the radio, shouting into the receiver again.

"Dear God, is anyone there? Can you hear me? Jesus, please tell me someone's on the other end of this thing!"

"Christ, there _is_someone there! Ginny, lass, you were right!" It's the man with the Irish accent who's on the radio, and he sounds a good bit happier than I'm feeling at the moment.

"I don't know who this is, but could you get me out of this damn thing?! She's trying to get in!" I cry, trying not to panic.

The guy on the end of the phone chuckles somewhat mirthlessly. "Just keep quiet, boyo, she won't be gettin' in there any time soon. Ryan made those things damn near indestructible, it'll take a lot more than a lone Splicer to damage the hull. She's just gotta get outta range. Ginny, lass, can you see her?"

A second voice comes over the radio, a slightly more distant female voice with a slightly different accent.

"I see her, Atlas. I cannot reach her from where I am, you will 'ave to draw her off and get her near ze pedestals." The accent is thick and slurred . . .French? It's a young girl, easily my age if not younger, but she sounds confident.

"Damn. Let's see . . .I don't think I can reach anythin' from here . . .let's try this. Cover your ears, kiddos." Confused, I don't cover my ears in time to shield myself from the ear-piercing squeal that comes from over the radio. It's so loud that I drop the thing, stumbling backwards with a yell. The "Splicer", as Atlas called her, screams in anger, and I see her hit the ground with a crouch, taking off in the direction of the sound. Just as she disappears into the shadows, a loud gunshot comes from somewhere to the left. The sound of the Splicer disappears, and for once in quite a while, there is beautiful, golden silence.

I collapse against the cold wall of the craft, heart pounding. Any assumptions I'd had about the gorgeous exterior of this city are probably wrong.

"Oy, boyo, can you hear me? Are you there?" I fumble for the radio, still coming off my adrenaline high but not wanting to lose contact with my only sane company.

"Y-y-. . .Jesus Christ." I'm literally shaking.

Atlas chuckles again. "That's right, take a deep breath. You're gonna need it in this hellhole. Look. I'll open up that hatch for you, and I want you to go up the stairs. Find Ginny, we'll move from there . . .ah . . ."

"Jack. Wynand." I introduce myself awkwardly between pants.

"Ah, right then. Well Jack. This is Atlas you're talkin' to, and ah, Ginny girl, you there?"

"_Oui_. Come, Jack. " So she _is _French.

Suddenly, the hatch to the bathysphere opens with a hiss, and all of my enthusiasm to get out that has been drained from my encounter with the Splicer. The _last_thing I want to do is step foot out there in that madness.

If I'm being honest, it takes me a minute to work up the nerve to take a step out of the ship and onto the dusty red carpet.

"Come on, lad, we ain't got all day; the road's clear, get over there so we can get to higher ground, eh?" That slight impatience isn't unjustified. I'm the foreigner here. Two people who already have a seeming partnership are willing to help; I'm not about to take advantage. Sucking up my nerves, I venture out into the open hall with the radio in my pocket.

Despite the horrific first encounter, I can't help but still find myself in awe. This had to have been, at one time, the main entrance of the city; that would mean that the entire propaganda performance I had seen in the bathysphere ride down was probably meant for newcomers.

The main hall is comprised of two levels: The main level which is primarily composed of the bathysphere dock, and the second level that the grand staircase leads up to. A couple of fantastically large windows offer a stunning view into the ocean. It still holds its beauty, the tall wavering forms ghostly in the green-blue water . . . although I now dreaded to find what's inside all of those cavernous buildings. Perhaps the shadows hadn't been "people" at all . . .

Jogging up the steps, I'm confronted with a minor decision. On this huge balcony that's littered with what look like protest signs, there are two directions. To the right is a cavernous hall separated by a low toll gate. The whole area is darkened, and I have enough sense to try and stay out of the darkened areas for fear of what lurk there. Atlas had said _left_ anyway, so left it is.

I read the signs as I move along the floor, wondering if the protest can shed any light on just what has happened here. Some parts of the hall are decent and put together, and other parts look like a war zone: pieces of cloth, _hair_, blood on the carpet, bullet shells, and a number of other odds and ends.

"_Let it end, let us ascend!"_says one. Another, painted a grizzly red, screams "_We are not your property!"_I guess when you're on the bottom of the ocean, there's nowhere to go but up from here. My stomach churns suddenly at the idea of an entire city of people being trapped down here. I had assumed that residency and visitation here was by choice . . .but the idea that the public had been held hostage down here is a new level of claustrophobia, even for me.

"Atlas, what _happened_in here?" I ask quietly, worried to disturb anything that might be hiding out of sight.

"Power 'appened." A voice comes from my left. The climb up another small set of stairs leads me to the side room on the right, which looks like a grand entrance hall to the interiors of this sector of the city. Expensive furniture is riddled with holes with legs snapped off and splinters everywhere. The very carpet puffs out dust with each of my steps.

The same style of architecture and decoration (art deco, my art teacher had once called it back when) is carried on throughout the plaza: Ornate designs, stained glass, deep reds and golden hues everywhere.

Out of the shadows steps a thin, tall young woman of about seventeen or eighteen, nearly my age but perfectly his height, taking me by complete surprise.

The most prominent feature I notice first about her is a scar that slides down her left cheek. It's healed by now and doesn't disfigure her face, but it's a pinkish-red line that moves from her temple to her ear, at least, like she's been sliced there. She's got a head of long, dark hair that falls in a curtain to half-way past her shoulders; a pair of well-styled eyebrows raise at my appearance, almandine caramel eyes taking me in. She's dressed in a pair of blood-stained dark brown pants that are almost big on her, and a bright red jumper not unlike mine. The main difference between the two of us is that she's holding a fairly large pistol in one hand. The other hand's scarred and scratched like she's stuck it over an open flame for at least five minutes and never healed the skin . . .suddenly my mind flies back to the advertisement in the bathysphere, and I keep note to stay far away from that hand until I'm fully up to speed.

She holsters the pistol in a section of her belt, pulling the jumper over it and frowning at me. The look has a name in my mind: condescending.

"So: you are ze Splicer meat." The girl furrows her eyebrows, and I immediately frowned back.

"_Jack_." I correct her. Like that thing's something I should have seen every day of my life.

I try to be civil, holding out my hand, but she slaps my open-palmed hand in reflex, a flash of light coming from her own flesh. Out of nowhere, voltage courses through my body, pounding my every nerve like fire. I let out a yell, collapsing to the ground and she does nothing to help me. "Genevieve."

"Ginny, you goober, are you mad? You'll kill the lad if he's not used to that stuff!" Atlas scolds over the radio, and the girl smirks irritably.

"Well he will 'ave to get used to it sooner or later." "Ginny" turns on her heel and marches in the other direction, leaving me twitching on the ground to recover.

"Jack, boyo, can you hear me?"

"Y-yOW. Yeah, Atlas, I'm h-here." Speaking becomes a struggle, electric currents causing me to spasm. I manage to climb back to my feet, shaking slightly.

"Sorry about Ginny, mate, she's a bit rough 'round the edges, if you catch my drift. She'll warm up, don't you worry."

"Mm." I mumble, shaking my head clear and watching as Ginny scours the next room carefully.

"Well, lad, I don't know how you survived that plane crash, but we're gonna aim to keep you alive. Welcome to Rapture: deadliest place in the sea. Got any startin' words?" Atlas chuckled bitterly.

I watch Ginny jump and aim her gun at the sound of my cough, a look of utter determination on her face.

"Yeah . . .wow . . ."


	4. Teamwork

And I'm back with Chapter 4! I should be able to update regular as I'm gonna be doing a lot of travelling and stuffs over Thanksgiving break. What better way to spend the travel time? :)

Enjoy!

* * *

"Alright kiddos, we've got to move it to higher ground. I don't know what kind of attention Jack's grand entrance may have caused, but even so it ain't wise to be in one place for too long." Atlas directs us over each of our radios. With a device in each hand, it's like the guy's right here with us. I can't deny I wish that was the case. From what I've seen, I'm not sure how much of Ginny I'll be able to tolerate unfiltered. She has a completely insufferable chip on her shoulder, like she thinks I'm an idiot or something. Yeah, I did just fall out of the sky, but I can _learn_.

"Atlas, where will we find 'im a gun?" Ginny asks flatly, pausing a moment in her haughty stride. She brushes her hair behind her ear, looking me up and down curiously. "And maybe a plasmid as well."

Plasmids. Like . . .those things that scarred Ginny's hand (I'm guessing).

"Is that really nec-"

"There's a Gatherer's Garden up ahead in the room in front of the Atrium. Keep your wits about you, lass, I can't promise there's nothing in there."

"Yes sir." Ginny snips dutifully, pocketing her radio. She jogs ahead, jerking her chin for me to follow.

"What are we doing?" I ask quietly, constantly glancing over my shoulder and all the cracks and crevices of the vicinity in paranoia. Ginny sighs, looking at me lazily as if she can't be bothered, and I feel ready to just about wipe the look clean off her face.

"We 'ave to get you tonic before anysing else, and after zat maybe we can find you a weapon. Now 'ush, boy, no more questions for now." I open my mouth indignantly, but at a loud, angry screech, it slams shut again. Don't get me wrong, I don't normally allow _anyone_ to push me around, but this is definitely an exception, seeing as my "partner" is the only one with a weapon.

"Gin, are you alright? I heard-"

"It's a . . .a l-led'ead, Atlas . . .she makes sound but I cannot see 'er."

"Ahh, come on, lass. You can do this. You and I against the world, remember?" Atlas says quietly. I look at Ginny closely, and it doesn't take too long of a gaze to realize that though her pistol is aimed, the girl's trembling. The fiery conceit has left her eyes, replaced with hollow fear. While she's stuttering, her accent makes it hard to determine words, but it sounded like she said "leadhead", or something of the sort.

"I can _see you_, pretty girrrrllll." A raspy voice comes from the rafters of the hall, causing both of us to jump and look up in the air. Ginny is still trembling, finger still clutching the trigger of her pistol.

"You and I against ze world." Ginny whispers, taking a deep breath. I can't help but admire her courage, because she steels herself over and the trembling stops long enough to hold the gun steady.

Suddenly, the Splicer screeches noisily, showing itself as it falls from the roof beams, landing in front of us with not even one bit of damage to the legs on the landing. For the first time, I get a good look at what my new friends have labeled a "splicer".

The origin of the name is unknown to me, but if anything I would guess it was _gene _splicing. It's an older woman, possibly in her early thirties, late forties. It looks like the poor thing has been floating in the sea for going on at least a year now. Her body, thin skin and bones, is a sickly graying green, the flesh sagging as though it's melting off of her. The remnants of a face are still recognizable: two dark, sunken sockets with glittering black orbs that watch us both hungrily. Her mouth is oddly lopsided, teeth crooked, nose clearly broken, hair matted underneath a ripped and moldy sunhat, and her dress . . .it isn't a dress. She's wearing practically nothing, the cloth nearly shredded to non-existence. Worst of all, her scabby legs wobble in a pair of slimy stilettos that seem to have _bonded_with her skin, the skin slithering in tendrils around the material. I can smell the creature from here, and it's like fish guts with blood and marsh water. It's not even as bad as garbage; she smells quite literally like the dirty ocean floor.

"Okay, lass, shoot." Atlas's command comes from over the radio, but Ginny hasn't moved. She's still locked in eye contact with the rotting corpse of a woman.

"Ginny, what are you doing? Shoot the wretch!" Atlas says a little more frantically. I nudge her shoulder, feeling the horrible sense of urgency that Atlas is conveying, but all of her bravado has quickly disappeared, and she is at essence exactly as she appears: A young woman with a gun and a conscience. I have a conscience too, mind you, but it's currently being overruled by primal fear, which is screaming at me to yank the weapon from the girl's hands and finish the job myself.

"DAMN IT GENEVIEVE SHOOT!" Atlas's yell startles all three of the room's occupants as the Splicer reaches for her own weapon. I now see why they called her a "Leadhead". Ginny seems to snap back to reality and pulls the trigger, sending the woman screaming. She, I kid you not, starts _climbing_the wall like a spider in fear. It's horrific, the slimy human form scuttling across the surfaces. Regaining her senses, Ginny repeatedly fires until, to her credit, she lodges a bullet in the _head_ of the Splicer, causing her to fall with a thickening _thump_on the floor a little ways away from us. We three humans exhale shakily, and Atlas is the first to speak.

"Now then. Would one of you do the honors and loot the bird so we can get a move on?"

The conscienceless sentence seems so wickedly out of place in Atlas's once again bubbly Irish lilt. _Loot_? As in . . .we just shot her, and we're going to take her things? Granted she's dead, but it seems to cross so many lines of humanity to not let her lie in peace.

"You're going to s_teal_from her? After you killed her?" I ask incredulously. Ginny turns to look at him, her forehead crinkled in thought. It's not a hateful look as much as it is one of consideration, like she never thought about it before. Atlas sighs over the speaker.

"It's not a pretty sight to behold, boyo, but in times like these there's little room for humanity . . .what's left of it. It was us or her, and believe me you're gonna need what she's carryin'. We'll get back in heaven's good graces once we reach the surface, believe me. Now, would one of you _kindly_go and finish the job?" He has a point. I don't know how many of these things are around, and from what I've seen, they're down right murderous, let alone unable to reason. So I move first, suddenly feeling as though I want Ginny to be able to take a breather after her moment of hesitance.

I hold my breath as I kneel down to the mangled body, trying to avoid touching the blood and other fluids leaking from her. The knees of my pants are already dampened by the water dripping from her, turning my stomach.

"We don't have time for nitpickin', lad. Get your hands in there so we can get out."

Closing my eyes, I reach for the body and try not to lose the contents of my stomach to the spongy texture of the flesh. As gross and inhuman as I feel, I can't deny Atlas's logic: A quick once over has revealed a small package of bullets, a loaded pistol, and five bucks from her purse. I'm now decently armed, and I even have a small bit of money. Even as I pocket the bills though, I can't shake the image of the woman from my mind. I don't know if I ever will. That is . . .had been . . .a human being at one point, just like Ginny, Atlas, and I. It all comes down to one question.

Is getting a little leg up worth a human life?

"Good on ya, boyo. It ain't easy the first time-"

"Or ever." Ginny says quietly, low enough to avoid Atlas's hearing.

"You're doin' the right thing. For that, you've earned yourself a spot on the team." Atlas chuckles jokingly. The humor is lost in the dark, damp air. I can't even bring myself to smile. "Whadya say, laddy? You, me, and Ginny; you help me with a job I need to finish and I'll get the three of us to the surface for good."

Clearly things here in Rapture are not as they seem: so far, there wasn't a sign of any type of civility or law. Drastic circumstances call for drastic measures. For all I know, though, I could be signing over my life.

I haven't got anywhere to go but up.

"Okay. I'll do it. Just tell me where I need to go."

"Atta boy! That's what I wanna hear!" I can't help but smile. The feeling of having someone behind me is uplifting, to say the least. At least I've found some relatively sane people to buddy up with. They prove to be handy with strategy, weapons, and they seem to know their way around this nuthouse much more than I do. When I smile at the girl next to me though, she merely bites her lip, staring accusingly at me. Her eyes shine in the dim light with a strange catlike quality, and I can't tell if she's threatening to cry or if it's just the moonlight on the water outside. Either way, she restocks her pistol and marches onwards, whistling for me to follow like a dog.

Admittedly pissed at the behavior, I wait until she's a decent ways ahead to keep moving; still in sight, but not within complete earshot. "Atlas, did I do something wrong?"

Atlas audibly sighs, and I can almost see the man rubbing the back of his neck.

"To tell you the truth, lad, I don't know. The lassies are funny creatures to begin with. I ain't been a dad to one meself, so I couldn't rightly tell ya; good news is she can't stay frosty forever though . . .this city's got a way of bringing the likeminded together. Now go on, catch up, make friends; I gave her the directions." The radio hisses into silence, and I silently palm myself in frustration. I genuinely considered ignoring Atlas's suggestion for my own mental health, but the creaking of something on the stairs sends me sprinting forwards to catch up with Ginny's shadow.

Still unused to the tense atmosphere, I reach out for Ginny's shoulder. She turns around with a shout, hand flying out to sock me in the chest. Another jolt of electricity runs through me, sending me to the ground in blinding pain.

"A-a-a . . .d-dammit! W-would you stop d-d-doing th-that?!" I howl in agony, finally lying still on the ground, catching my breath.

"Would _you_ stop sneaking up on me?" Ginny snarls, squeezing her fist and causing the glowing current to disappear. "Idiot."

"I am _not_an idiot!" I spit at her, getting to my feet in frustration.

"Well you must be, ozerwise you would not 'ave come here to zis place!" Ginny insists without stopping. Her stormed steps lead us down a series of steps that I almost don't see, nearly causing me to stumble down the flight.

"You think I came here on _purpose_?" I fume at her, running to get in front of my new partner. "Do you _really_think I know what I'm doing here?" I stare at her bitterly, trying to get the message across.

My glare (and my blocking of her original path) causes her to stop, a hand on her hip. She whisks her long hair behind her shoulder and observes me in full; I can see the wheels turning in her head as she thins her pale lips.

"You know . . .here is ze sing. You come here to zis city. Zat light'ouse is in ze middle of fucking nowhere. One does not find it by, how you say, accident?" I realize she has a point, but I'm not about to back down.

"You know that plane crash?"

"_Oui_. Ze entire city saw it. 'ow could I not?"

"_I_ was on _that_ plane. _I_ was the only goddamn _survivor_. The plane c_rashed_over the water, and I ended up _here_. I had _no_where else to go. So _yes_, for your information, it w_as_a very, _very_ unlucky, _horrible_ accident! And given everything that is going on as we speak, I propose you get off your _high_horse so we can work together like Atlas _said_!" I'm in full defense mode now, legs spread, nearly anticipating an attack from Ginny, whose face even in the moonlight is bright red in anger.

"You . . ._you . . ."_she's shaking in fury. "You, boy, sink you can just valtz in here and be a replacement for my friend? Maybe Atlas can shrug zis off, but I am not so easily manipulated, you cur."

Friend . . .friend . . .it suddenly occurs to me that there had been one more short lived introduction during my time here: Johnny. I hadn't formally gotten a meet and greet, of course, but in my panic and wonder I had forgotten about him.

"Jack? Ginny? Am I comin' through alright?"

"_Oui,_Atlas." Ginny's foul temper shockingly dissipates on the spot, making her seem immediately submissive in the metaphorical presence of our Irish guide. The sudden change surprises me, and makes me furious. What is so special about Atlas? Why am I the bad guy?

"Oh, good then. Now that you two've had time to get acquainted, I'm going to have to ask the two of you to kindly pick up the speed. Not that Rapture's going anywhere, but the same can't be said for its residents."

I raise my eyes to Ginny, smirking in smug victory. She's reached a conflict of command and we both know it: caught between her personal vendetta against the intruder to her partnership and the request of someone who she obviously has close attachment to. She finally rolls her eyes, and holds out her unscarred hand for me to grasp. I make to meet the gesture, but she pulls back, leaning forwards.

"For _Atlas_; not you." Ginny whispers hollowly, reluctantly shaking my hand.

I roll my eyes. It's not perfect, but it's a start. I put it on a list of personal missions to crack that shell of hers, right under finding out the story of this ghost town.

"_My daddy's smarter than Einstein!"_The voice of a little girl suddenly rings out from the darkness, and suddenly Ginny's face lights up like Christmas. "Atlas I found it!" She takes off running, leaving me alone in her wake.

"Well get after it, boyo!" Atlas says excitedly, and I, cocking my pistol, follow Ginny's path into the darkness.

"_Stronger than Hercules and lights a fire with a snap of his fingers!"_The child's voice echoes against the walls, both of us frantically cantering through the darkness towards the source of the noise. "_Are you as good as my daddy, Mister? Not if you don't visit the Gatherer's Garden, you aren't! Smart daddies get spliced, at the Gardens!"_The voice cuts off with a giggle, and I realized that as a tuneful melody bubbles afterwards, that it's an advertisement rather than an actual person; the fact that I find that a relief shows just how bad of a situation I'm really in.

"Here, Jack!" Ginny calls, her voice actually somewhat brighter. Suddenly forgetting my apprehension, I trot forwards, and spot the neon light of something down the hall, Ginny's silhouette in front of it. "Wait!"

Trusting instinct, I immediately come to a halt, not putting on toe further in the dark.

"Two steps in front of you zere is a gap in ze balcony. Grab my hand, I will lead you around." A balcony? Well, that just goes to show how disoriented I am. I reach a hand blindly out into the air and eventually lock palms with Ginny.

"Step back. Come around . . .zat's it." I skirt around the edge of what feels to my toes like a massive circular hole in the woodwork. Once on flat ground, Ginny's hand disappears and her voice is closer on my right.

"Alright, lass, just one last thing to do: give those lights the ol' fist o' lightnin', would ya?"

Ginny actually _smiles_, the first positive emotion I've seen on her features. It's a nice look for her as opposed to the scowl she constantly wears.

"Wis pleasure." I watch as Ginny kneels next to the gap in the wood and reaches her hand down below the wood. She strains, slipping slightly, and I suddenly find myself at her side, not trying to be "handsy", as Mum would call it, but helpful. Ginny freezes for an instant, but doesn't even look back.

"_Voici." _Ginny whispers, and I hear a sizzle and a snap of wiring. Suddenly, there's another sound like swarms of angry bees filling the air, and the lights come on with glaring brilliance. The grandiose lobby, in all of its antique beauty, is sprawled before me, hitting me once again with awe. I feel so small minded and closed around here that the large sweeping spaces make me feel like an ant. We are indeed on a balcony, and the gap that Ginny had led me from is at _least_ two times the length I could have jumped. The mahogany balcony sweeps around the room, the bottom of which is like a scarlet and gold adorned ballroom framed with windows to the ocean view.

Behind me, the music starts up again, and I whip around to come face to face with a rusty machine: A cotton-candy pink container adorned with two ceramic statues of smiling little girls read _"Gatherer's Garden!" _in buttercup yellow letters. It looks a bit like a vending machine, but more complex. For starters, there's no money slot.

"Stock up, kiddos, you'll need it. It's about time you spent that ADAM." Whatever little bit of adventure I've been able to catch up on slips through his fingers. "ADAM?" I ask uncertainly. Maybe that's the Rapture currency. Well no, the Splicer woman had been carrying money . . .

"_Oui._" Ginny's attitude has improved dramatically within the past thirty seconds. She unclips her belt and takes a medium sized glass vial out of it. Inside the vial is something bright red like fruit punch. She takes the vial, gives it a couple good shakes, and fastens it under the nozzle of the machine. She fists a button on the front of the machine, and with a gentle sucking noise the contraption cleans out the bottle, dispensing it back empty.

"Looks like zere's enough for two." Ginny says giddily. I'm still vastly confused, but I'm suddenly waiting in anticipation of something I might be able to drink; I'm under the ocean and thirsty. What irony.

"Mmmm. Let's do zis. Electrobolt . . .and . . .I'll take part _deux_, _oui?_" I shrug passively, going along with Ginny's plan while watching a squid glide along the skylight in the roof about us. After some fiddling, the machine let out a series of sounds and dispenses two syringes, both filled with a royal blue liquid that reminds me achingly of water.

"What is it?" The cap is sealed on tight, the dangerously sharp needle sparkling in the light. An idea crosses my mind, and I become squeamish. Surely I'm not supposed to . . .

Ginny, smile growing, takes her needle and suddenly jams it as if it's nothing into her arm. My mouth drops open with a small sound, but Ginny closes her eyes, goosebumps visibly rising on her skin.

"Take it slow, lass. That stuff can do the number on your system . . ." Atlas warns from her hip, and she opens her eyes again, seemingly coming back to her senses. She opens her eyes to find me staring at her, utterly horrified. She raises her plasmid hand, the veins crackling with electricity and glowing beneath her flesh momentarily. She flexes, enjoying the tingling sensation, and giggles at my expression.

I'm mortified. I don't know what just happened, but I want no part of it. "You there, boyo? Ginny's got ya plasmid, it's your turn."

"N-no." I say defensively, backing away slowly from Ginny who seems to be taking the denial as a challenge.

"I know it doesn't look pretty, but you'll be dead in a day if you don't, lad. It's not that bad-"

"Pretty? What the hell is wrong with you, just j-jamming . . .no! Forget it! I'll get there on my own . . .y-you stay away from me…" I retreat from Ginny as she drives for my exposed forearm.

"Jack, if you do not stay still I cannot 'elp you!" she insists, reaching again. I deflect her again, spinning her around. I don't know what that stuff could do to my body or my mind . . .is it a drug? Ginny's attitude had been cleared up at the mere mention of the "plasmid" or "ADAM" or whatever Ginny and her weirdo master had called it. They aren't friends. In the wake of panic they seem like they only want to use me as an experiment.

"Jesus, boyo, would you-" Atlas sighs in frustration. "Would you _kindly_stop moving so we can help you?"

Suddenly my calf seems to cramp, causing me to stumble lamely. Ginny frowns, surprised by my sudden cooperation, but takes it none the less. She extends my arm, smiling at me warmly before driving the needle into my arm with the force of a hammer.

The last thing I see before screaming in pain and tumbling over the balcony is Ginny's mortified face sailing away from me in the dark.


	5. Finders Keepers

Hey guys, sorry for the long wait! I got caught up in some other stuff, and the perfectionist in my turned this into twice the length it originally was. XD After lots of meticulous writing and double checking, I now have the next chapter!

To answer a question and to offer a great read to the followers of the story, there IS indeed a Bioshock novel already (information can be found at the Bioshock Wiki Site) which tells somewhat of a prequel to the first Bioshock game. I read it myself, it's brilliant if I do say so myself, and I highly recommend it to any Bioshock fan. :)

Without further ado, I give you the latest chapter in our story. :)

* * *

"_Mick, check this out! This one's still fresh . . .poor sap ain't even stopped twitching yet."_

_ "Back off. 'Ee's mine." _

_ "Hey now, chicky, finders keepers. In case you didn't know, that's how it works down here. Maybe we need to show you the rop-"_

_ "-click- Back up or zis gun goes in your-"_

"_This way, Mr. B! I smell Angels . . ."_

_ "Oh shit . . .ah fuck it. There's more when he came from, lady." _

Consciousness starts to trickle back into my mind, and I feel someone kneel at my side. A gentle hand grabs my shoulder, another at my cheek gently patting.

"Jack. Come on, get up. Now is not ze time for sleep. We 'ave to keep moving."

As I come to, I blink a couple of times. The lights are still on, and Ginny's face is creased in worry as she leans over me. The look is foreign on her normally tough features, and I make to speak, but only a slurred sound comes out. Then I manage to get out one sentence.

"So I'm _yours_, huh?"

_SMACK. _

Maybe my face will be red for a while, but that was worth it just to throw her off guard. I can see that chances for laughs are going to be few. I climb to my feet, dusting myself off and shaking my head clear. There's a massive cramp in my left hand-

"GAHH" I pull back in horror from my own appendage. My skin is literally _rippling_, writhing gently like a disgruntled snake. I can see my veins, my flesh illuminated as if someone's shining a flashlight against my arm. "W-what the hell?!" I wring my hand violently to try and shake the squeamish, tingly feeling away. It's gross and unnatural, causing my entire body's skin to crawl. Ginny grabs my arm, wrenching it to a standstill; for such a thin person, she's strong, made entirely of muscle and bone.

"Try not to disturb plasmid flow. Zis one zey call Electrobolt. Like ze lightening, _oui?_"

Ginny demonstrates firmly, throwing her arm out. From her palm protrudes a visible electric current, much like a lightning strike. As it finds no decent target, the sparks merely fade into the air with a _snap!_ I personally experienced the effects, though, so I have no reason to doubt the authenticity.

"H-how-"

"Your genetic code 'as been rewritten. Body now produces electric current."

"I-"

"You get used to eet."

I stare at my hand, mortified. There's a horrible feeling of invasion in my mind, encroachment of personal space. Genetic _code? _

"Is . . .you're joking, right? My genetic code?! Am I ever going to get it back?" Genetics have never been at the forefront of my mind, but my body has been perfectly fine before this moment, so does it really need to be messed with?

Rapture is growing darker with every step, it seems, taking everything from me but my name in the wake of arriving.

"We all make sacrifices." Ginny sniffs, brushing her long hair out of her eyes. "Now you 'ave ze plasmid, you 'ave ze gun, you are set for a walk in ze city; at least for a little while. You can shoot a gun, correct?"

"Genetics . . .is that what happened to those other people?" I'm not about to brush this off like it's nothing. What if my body mutates? What if I end up like those people who are all messed up?!

"Gun? Shooting? Yes? No?" Ginny frowns, rolling her eyes in exasperation.

Trying to satisfy her to get answers, I pull the weapon from my belt, staring uncertainly.

Unless genetics has something to do with my trigger finger, I'm as capable as any other person. As a boy it feels like it would come naturally, but besides a shotgun when I was little in my Dad's guidance, I've never fired a proper weapon.

Gripping tightly and pointing away from anything living, I pull the trigger and feel the rebound pulse in my arm. It actually feels somewhat good, a feeling of power after feeling so defenseless. I make a move to trigger again but Ginny stops me. "Ammo is valuable, do not waste. Now 'ere is what we will do. What Atlas likes to call ze one two punch. See? One, two."

She moves her hands in succession: A zap from the left hand, a shot from the right. I can see the logic: Electrocute the enemy, finish them with a bullet; hopefully one is all it'll take. I try the move myself, and Ginny nods. "As for ze people . . .you could say zat."

I try not to feel victorious when I think I see her smile. Even so, when she moves to flick on the radio channel, I stop her gently, making sure not to startle and/or make physical contact.

"So I'm curious. What is it between you and Atlas? Relat-"

"He took care of me." Ginny says simply with a sniff as if she wants to end the topic right there. The brief bit of mercy she had for me dissipates as she clicks the radio.

"Atlas, we are ready. Where do you need us?"

Atlas coughs, sounding as though he's just taken a long drag from a cigarette. "Righto then. Listen, if you're in the Entry Hall, there's going to be a door somewhere over there. That'll be the walkway through to the Atrium, Kashmir and the like. I think the quickest way to where I am might be through Neptune's Bounty. That's far on the other side of where you are though; you've got a bit of a walk ahead. Get through to the Kashmir first, and I'll pick up there. The signal's gonna die a bit, so I'll catch back up with ya. Keep a sharp eye out."

The radio fizzles out, and even with Ginny at my side I feel incredibly lonely in this empty place. Even though the structural integrity of the city seems to be sturdy, I can mentally feel the ocean and the ghostly atmosphere of this place weighing down my mind. Feeling dizzy again, I try to take my mind off it by attempting to get through to Ginny.

"He took care of you?" I press further, too eager to talk to my first bit of company in ages to worry about consequences.

"Yes. Do you not speak English?" Ginny sighs, her eye roll apparent in her voice.

"Well he's obviously not your Dad. You're from two separate countries. Is he a friend?"

Ginny whips around again, glaring at me. "You have a lot of questions for-"

"A stranded, clueless kid?" I sneer back, staring at her. "Sorry. You'd think I just fell out of the sky." The sarcastic comment doesn't go over her head.

"Abnormally so." She growls, letting it go. "Come on, now. I sink I hear a Big Daddy nearby. We don't want to be here if he 'appens to get angry."

"A what?" I ask, flexing my arm again. The plasmid in my blood gives it a horribly cramped feeling, like I'm wearing a glove three sizes too small. Big Daddy . . .while the title doesn't give much away, it doesn't sound promising.

Ginny ignores my question, holstering her gun and checking around the area for anything she may have left. "Atlas said ze door was . . .ah. 'ere it is." Sure enough, embedded into the wall is a bronze bulkhead with the word SECURIS etched across it grandly. I can see through the window that it leads into a glass tunnel rather than out into the ocean like first suspected.

My companion steps forwards, placing a toe on the doorframe. The door makes a loud clank and rattles slightly, but it sounds as though it's jammed and trying to open. Ginny huffs and shoves her hand into the panel next to the door, sparking up her plasmid and causing the door to open warily. The brute tactics are a little gruesome; it seems like no one has any boundaries here: stabbing themselves with dirty syringes, shoving their hands in electrical sockets.

"If we 'ave to keep using it on doors how are we ever going to . . ." I can hear her mumble to herself. The fact that I've known her for all of twenty minutes and she's said only a few words to me like I'm a pesky sibling bothers me more than a little. There has to be a way to fix this.

"Are you a survivor?" I say sullenly with almost no backing behind my voice. I'm trying, I really am, but I'm tired. The city is draining me with each step. Ginny stops, her somewhat stringy hair still shining in the light from the tunnel. Her trigger finger twitches slightly as I speak to her.

"You could say zat." She admits, her shoulders slumping.

"Well so am I. I'm not asking you to get married. I'm asking you to be my friend. Partner at least. You don't have to like me. But can we at least be civil?" It's an earnest plea, no sarcasm or apprehension in it. I'm too tired to fight.

There's a few small movements from Ginny's figure. She takes a small breath, her leathery boots coming together, and her hands rub her neck. "Don't expect to replace him." are her words.

I feel for her, and for both our sakes I don't ask into it. I simply follow my companion into the tunnel, breath suddenly absent from my chest.

"God damn . . ." the words escape from me breathlessly as we stepped into the tunnel.

It's entirely glass except for the metal flooring, offering a spectacular view of our surroundings. I can't help but crane, stepping in a complete circle to take in everything I possibly can. The buildings in the ocean tower over us like great ghostly skeletons, the reflection of the neon lights causing pastel stains in the liquid. It's beautifully sickening, making me both nauseous and awe-inspired at the same time. The sheer idea of something so impossible teases the imagination. The weight of the situation, figuratively and literally, starts to fall on me and I feel lightheaded, like I'm walking in some sort of demented dream state. I can't see the sky. It's hundreds of feet above us, far out of my eyesight and out of my reach. We're quite literally trapped under the sea.

"Ginny, do you see this?" I ask, gaping. A look at Ginny shows that she's merely moving along at a fast pace, deliberately looking away.

"I try not to." She says hollowly, closing her eyes with a sigh. "Sometimes if I do not look out the window it's almost as if I'm somewhere else."

Ginny has so far been remarkably silent, but every time she speaks her words cut deeper than anything I've experienced.

Why would anyone want to try and ignore it? Then again, it's different to the atmosphere I've seen all my life. Perhaps she's lived with it? How long _has s_he been here?

"Were you-"

"_Mon dieu._" Ginny utters quietly, and I follow her gaze, dropping off my question for later. Coming out of the ocean is an impossibly large, looming shadow. At first I thought it was a whale, maybe something bigger . . .

"MOVE!" I just managed to shunt my partner out of the way. The body of the Apollo aircraft has come back with a vengeance, rubbing my exile in my face one last time. The body tears right through the glass snake of a tunnel with a sickening screech, making my ears pop from the pressure . . .

Sensing the oncoming storm, I huddle into a ball, curling over my companion as tightly as I can before the icy water rushes over them, shooting us through the tunnel like a bullet from a gun.

_BANG._

The water-logged projectile that is Ginny and I crashes with painful force into the closed bulkhead near the end of the tunnel.

OWWW. God, my head feels like it might split open from the pain, the freezing water acting as a pain reliever, gently numbing the pounding. Against all odds, the body of the plane has barricaded enough of the stream to make it just a few trickles from the walls while the drains slowly sucked away the remnants of the sea water. The pressure difference is enough to give anyone a massive headache though, the lack of air starting to get to me.

I cough, emptying my burning throat of the salty water, and feel a shift next to me before falling over painfully onto my side.

"You can get off me now, _mec_." Ginny rasps, coughing up water. "Zat must 'ave been ze plane. Is zere no end to the damage you bring with you?"

I childishly kick a splash of water into her face, causing her to squint moodily as she wrings out her jumper. "Mature. Get up. Zere is no time for lying about." We both get to our feet shakily, shoes splashing in the water. The door opens for us luckily, letting the sea water spill out onto the once fine carpet of the Atrium.

After draining the water from my ears, I blink blearily, eyes getting adjusted to the dim light of the new room.

The most prominent feature of Rapture so far is it's gloriously elegant style. Deep hues everywhere, mahogany and velvet and silk. Architectural feats: sweeping archways and aesthetically pleasing accents everywhere you look. I imagine that in it's heyday, this place must have been comparable to some of the world's finer palaces. Not to say it isn't beautiful now, but in a more ghostly manner; more of a sense of what _was _rather than what it currently is.

We currently stand at the end of a large corridor with ceilings so high I can't even make them out in the darkness. The halls, finely ridged in elegant architecture are adorned with layered glass lamps. In between each lamp is a long, silk banner of a different royal color, golden type announcing the values upon Rapture must have originally been built: Independence. Liberty. Ascendancy. Creativity; the list goes on and on. I suddenly can't decide if this idea was eccentric yet brilliant or eccentric yet _reckless_.

What happens when you give scientists, artists, doctors, and businessmen free realm and _no _rules?

At the end of the corridor, there is a pair of bullion-glass doors. The entire length of the walk gave me time to think about my questions, and suddenly I have no desire to explore the rest of this trainwreck of a city. God knows what we're going to find in here.

Though I want to rip her hands from the handle, I swallow my fear and hold my breath as Ginny opens the heavy door to the Atrium.

"_Clair de Lune?_" is the first thing out of Ginny's mouth. At first I thought it was French, and though it is, it's also the name of the song that is playing softly over the Atrium speakers. The power is up and running in this place for the most part, which makes me a lot more at ease. The lights are dim, I can't see _much, _but I can see enough.

"Power's up. I suppose that's a good thing." I say with a chuckle, staring around the vast chamber, and Ginny doesn't even look in my direction.

"Zis is bad." She says quietly, staring around, right up to the ceiling. "Power means someone is where zey shouldn't be . . ."

"_And someday, they'll come for meeee. . .and I'll see the clouds float by. Someday this hell will rust in piece, and Ryan's rule will die . . ._"

A rusty male voice quivers along with the tune drunkenly, bouncing off the walls as he moans from somewhere on the second level.

"Where is he?" I mouth to Ginny, who brushes her hair behind her shoulder, her eyes narrowing in concentration. She motions for me to stay put, and quietly creeps forward in the darkness. About twenty feet ahead, she stops and she looks upwards, crouching as though trying to muffle her steps on the tile beneath our feet; I can just faintly see her pointing upwards. I follow her signal upwards with my gaze.

Up above us is a balcony with some more neon halos coming from it. I assume there's more up there to see, and the only way up is an elevator embedded into the side of the room. The balcony is something of a bridge between the upper platforms, and on the other side of the bridge, sticking straight out of the wall is a colossal golden statue of a fist clutching a chain. Another scarlet banner above the display reads: _THE GREAT CHAIN IS GUIDED BY OUR HAND. _

What _is _it with this place? It's so damn hypocritical! Built on freedom, they said. Built on equality, they said! And yet I'm staring up at the biggest piece of propaganda I've seen since Dad's wartime nostalgia box from the attic! No wonder the people were confused! Probably trying to exercise freedom and wondering why their president insisted dictatorships were evil.

"The same song. Over and over and over and _fucking over. _Just like _Ryan. _Just like _everyone_." The voice rasps again as the Debussy classic stops and starts over again. Sure enough, there's a Splicer up there, sitting perched on one of the chain links, trying to empty the crumbs of a snack back messily into his mouth.

Taking great care to stifle her noise, Ginny creeps back to me, gun in hand. "I don't know if I can reach 'im. I could try, but a missed shot could mean company."

I shrug at her, keeping the figure in my peripherals. "I think it's worth the bullet. Even if you hit him the shots gonna be heard for miles. If we're gonna get up there it'll be easier when he's out of the way."

"You 'ave a point. Gun ready?"

"And loaded." I click the safety.

"I will make ze shot. Be ready for anysing." I give her a mock salute and she smirks just a little, turning on her heel.

I watch as she aims her arms upwards, gripping her weapon with both hands.

Three . . . .two . . . .one . . . .

_BANG!_

That girl's got an arm as well as an attitude. Our Splicer friend falls from his perch, plummeting to the ground with a sickening crunch. If the shot didn't kill him on impact, the fall did.

I do a complete 360, half expecting alarms to sound, or at least an ambush. Luckily, nothing comes from the shadows but a slight trickle of water from somewhere to my left.

"That's it?" I say quietly as Ginny heads in my direction.

"Not sure, zey could be quiet. It is ze early morning after all. Not zat zey need sleep, but sings generally quiet down in zese hours."

"I suppose I just got lucky." I say suspiciously, still worried something will get me from behind.

"Let's keep moving. Do not want to be still for too long." Ginny advises, and for once I am fully inclined to heed her warning.

The wire cage elevator is rusty, but somewhat alive. It rattles to life at my touch of the button, and my companion smiles at me. "Per'aps you are not as bad luck as I first sought."

"We'll see." I joke, goosebumps travelling down my skin; partially from a chill riding through the large Atrium, and partially from the feeling of breaking down the walls between my only friend and I.

"I see you found the lift!" Atlas's chipper voice interjects, causing me to jump. I try not to roll my eyes. Not that I'm not completely thankful for the guy, but his "oh_-_I'm-here-now!" interruptions are killing both my nerves and my little bit of enthusiasm.

"Jack actually found it. Luckily it works." I stare at Ginny dumbfounded, and she shrugs with a smirk. "Credit where it is due. Where are we going, Atlas?"

"There's been a change of plan, kiddos, some good news and some bad news. The short of it is that I could really use your help. I help you, you help me, eh? My family's down here."

Ginny and I stare at each other in shock. "You are not alone?" Ginny asks curiously.

"Unfortunately not. Moira, my wife, and my son Patrick. They're stranded out there in Neptune's Bounty."

"Atlas, I am so sor-"

"If we can get there, there's a bathysphere with all five of our names on it."

The silence is filled only by the wondrous smile that grows on Ginny's face in realization. "Atlas . . .are you serious? You 'ave found us a way out?" My heart skips a beat at the idea. Maybe a whole adventure won't be necessary after all . . .

Atlas chuckles brightly. "It's lookin' that way, lass, but you have to hurry. If they figure out what the plan is they're gonna do everything in their power to stop ya. Get through the Kashmir, the bulkhead should be on the other side."

The elevator comes to a stop just as Atlas's transmission cuts. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Ginny leaps forward, wrapping her hands around my shoulders.

"Uh . . ." she backs up, adjusting herself.

"Zere may be hope yet, Jack. Zere may be hope yet . . .now come on. No time to lose."

My friend takes off at a quick jog, and I can't help but smile in spite. I haven't seen her quite so excited.

On the top floor of the Atrium are a few neon store fronts. A drug store, a small refreshments shopette . . .and a large, magenta neon marquee reading _Kashmir Restaurant._

Bingo.

"Wait!" Suddenly my excitement is killed by the fact that Ginny has just disappeared through the door without A) waiting for me or B) without any hesitation. Who knows what's in there?!

I take off after her, making sure to be as quiet as I can upon entry-

"_When your daddy's in the ground, mommy's going to sell you by the pound. When your mommy's up and gone, you're gonna be the lonely one…"_

Oh god.

The sight is sickening, and here is where I'm going to learn just how deep this insanity reaches, I'm sure of it.

There's a small corridor where I suppose the maître-d once stood his post. The hall is darkened for the most part bar a couple of flickering emergency lights, but not unoccupied.

Against the wall about twenty feet away is an antique style baby-carriage. A Splicer woman in a long gown and a tattered hat is shaking violently, leaning over the pram worriedly. The terrible threats are sung in sugar sweet sobs, the desperate cry of a mother who has lost her child more than likely. I look at Ginny, and she has completely frozen in place, her face horrified.

If it's one thing I notice about her, she has a stern face in the midst of danger, but is just as human, and is just as vulnerable to emotion as I or anyone else. And believe me, this scene is enough to break my heart.

"_When you are the lonely one, no one will be there to sing this song… Hush now. Mommy's gone… and daddy too. Wait. This is happening before, and not - Why are you here? W-why is it today and not then when you were warm and sweet? Why can't mommy hold you to her breast and feel your teeth? Oh, no… no, no, no, no . . ._"

The woman falls back into a fit of terror, and I close my eyes, trying to block out her tortured drawls. There's no way she is going to let either of us by . . .but do either of us have what it takes to kill a mother while she's tending to her child? And if Splicers are sane enough to hold a maternal instinct, what does that mean for the rest of them?

"Oh Jack." Ginny leans into my shoulder, and I can tell from the slight spasms shuddering through her she's crying. I can't force her to do this.

With a trembling heart and a quivering hand, I walk slowly up to the woman's back, my own shadow casting a nightmarish silhouette on the wall. I don't know if I can do this-

"DON'T YOU TOUCH MY BABY!" The woman whirls around, hissing at me, and her face looks as though her tears were acid. Long lines of missing skin show muscle and bone, one eye socket drooping horribly.

The attack took me by so much surprise that I pull the trigger out of instinct, causing the woman to fall in less than five seconds. The feeling of her falling on my boots makes me physically gag, and I have to turn away.

Ginny quickly steps over the woman, her curiosity driving her towards the baby pram. I can't see what lies in the shadow, but her face tells me it isn't pretty.

"J-ja . . . _oh non._ _Pauvre . . ." _She's whispering, a hand in the carriage. Though my stomach begs me otherwise, I find myself next to her to observe the damage.

It wasn't as bad as I had suspected: There is merely a gun lying in place of whatever child had once used the basket. More disturbing, though, is the large, infant-sized blood stain underneath the weapon.

Ginny's hand finds mine in support, and I give it a squeeze, partially for her benefit and partially for mine. I try to convince my mind that it was merely an accident . . .maybe the blood didn't even belong . . .

Ginny pulls from me, and without turning back heads into the restaurant. I want to follow, but the sight in front of me roots me to the spot.

Everything is tragically skewed.

Any impressions I had of this place, I quickly wipe from my mind.

I will not be attached, I will not form alliances, I will not support. This was not my fight, it never was, and it never will be.

These people are not sane. They aren't people. They're dangerous. Dying. Dead. If I start feeling sympathy for the dead, I don't know how I'll keep my sanity. I _do _want to find out what Ryan has to do with running this place into the ground, but I don't want it to consume me. My goal, first and foremost, is an escape.

No sleuthing. No friendships. Only survival.

Repeating my new mantra, I traipse into the restaurant, fully prepared for whatever comes my way.

The good news is for now it's empty.

The first thing to hit me is the smell of liquor and booze combined with mold.

The restaurant is as luxurious as the material for which it was named. The windows are impossibly huge, once again offering a beautiful view into the haunting depths of the water; although now, I can sympathize with Ginny and Atlas. The sight of the fish and the lack of a sky is starting to make me nauseous.

Outside, light is brought from a humongous globe structure with the grand fluorescent title of RAPTURE, somehow still illuminated in its watery grave. It looks like a current might have toppled it onto its side, causing it to stop in its rotation and merely rot in place. The other prominent feature I notice is a large banner with a pair of eyes that stare at me mischievously.

It's a poster: _Rapture Masquerade Ball 1959_

New Years. Masquerade.

Suddenly, a piece of my mystery-ridden puzzle is jammed into place with glaring clarity.

Masks everywhere, confetti, glasses . . .if the giant, broken NEW YEARS 1959 sign doesn't spell it out, I don't know what will.

It looks like Rapture's last day was New Years. And not too far back, either . . .only the beginning of this year. I suppose a few months could have been enough time for this amount of damage to take place, especially with these wackos running around dismantling the place.

The next question is what caused the downfall?

I can almost see what this place used to be. It's like everything was left in its exact location at the time of its abandon. Glasses on the counter, some of them still full after all this time (that's what I'm hoping. God help me if they're fresh.) Seats are overturned at the bar and at tables, shoes and scarves and hats littering the floor, left by a panicked crowd. The strange thing is, I can see what might have caused it all, but the real question is _why_.

The Splicers have over-run the city, and with their familiarity one can only assume they are Rapture's original inhabitants. Ryan's iron grip on their minds might have caused some tension . . .were the drugs his doing? I can't see him trying to kill his own residents.

Suddenly, a small tinkling of china comes from the back of the restaurant, beyond the service doors. My hand tenses, gripping my gun, but I try to settle, remembering that Ginny is in here too though she's not by my side at the moment. A little exploration couldn't hurt, I suppose.

Actually, this is a restaurant.

I'm starving, and as gross as it sounds, my mind is spinning at the thought of food. I make a ritual of searching the booths by the windows one by one, and though I find lots of purse and decorative items, I don't find anything useful besides a chocolate bar that I save for Ginny, a tape player, and a bag of potato chips with an expiration date a few months from now. My brain questions the logic, but is overruled by my growling stomach. I sit down at the table, ripping open the bag of chips and examining the record player out of interest.

It's about the size of a large picture frame with a tape dispenser on the front and a handle on the top. A peeling label bears a penned in name, right next to a little blinking light that pulses red in the dim light. I press it up to my ear; the insides are whirring gently. This thing still works!

The label reads _Diane McClintock. _

If it's got a name it might be a diary . . .but who knows where she is now . . .

My curiosity gets the better of me, and I press the play button on the "AccuVox" as the scent of salt-and-vinegar chips washes over my mind.

"_Another New Year's, another night alone."_ The woman on the tape sounds a little less than pleased. This must have been recorded back when the restaurant was in full swing . . .New Year's 1959, perhaps? "_I'm out, and you're stuck in Hephaestus, working. Imagine my surprise_."

Working couple. I guess you find them everywhere. My mum and dad were a bit like that. Dad worked late into the night while mum waited up for him; but New Year's? What kind of a job must that have been . . .

"_I just guess I'll have another drink…here's a toast to Diane McClintock, silliest girl in Rapture._" There's a clink of a glass, and a quiet sniff, like she might be tearing up. I can't help but feel bad for her. "_Silly enough to fall in love with Andrew Ryan._"

Hold up . . .plot twist! So . . .this woman's got a connection to Mr. Ryan, does she?

"_Silly enough to_-" and suddenly she cuts off. The tape fills with the background noise, which turns from happy chatter and the droning of "Auld Lang Syne" to screams and the sounds of heavy crashes . . .maybe even explosions . . .

"_LONG LIVE ATLAS!"_

_ "DEATH TO RYAN!"_

The cries number in the dozens amongst the screaming, too distinct and furious to be mistaken for anything else. My heart suddenly skips a beat, my stomach in knots. A loud crash echoes on the tape, and Diane speaks again.

"_Oh god . .what happened . . .I'm . . .I'm bleeding . . .oh God . . _." The tape squeaks to a halt, and I'm held in the silence.

All of a sudden there's a morbid weight held in this place, like I can feel the ghosts. Something horrible has happened here . . .

I turn on my heel again, doing a wide 360 of the place. While there's no sign of an explosion, I can now see the scars of battle that took place here. Ryan . . .Atlas . . .

_Atlas._

What has _he_ got to do with this? If he had his hands in anything related to this disaster how in the hell am I supposed to trust him?!

"That's _mine _you nosy _mongrel_." I duck just in time to miss a lead pipe to the head, reeling as the weight of a second body barrels over me. Over my shoulder comes a raspy, dilapidating figure of a woman who smells of heavy perfume and mold. She kicks the tape player out of the way, coming at me again, and ready for it this time I grab the pipe, wrenching it out of her hand and kicking her backwards in the stomach. She flies backwards with a guttural shriek and leaps at me again with inhuman speed.

I hit the floor, throwing her off of me, and amidst my streaking thoughts I know that I have to do away with her before she attracts more Splicers to my location.

The woman, an older wash-up with stringy dark hair and peeling cherub cheeks rushes from behind to my shoulders, trying to wrench me backwards. With an angry thrust, I grip my hand around her neck and send a jolt of electricity through her. She stutters angrily, eyes closing in pain, and I close my eyes just long enough to avoid seeing the bullet I put through her brain.

It's awful. It really, truly is. The sound of the human-sized thud at my feet makes me so sick that I don't even turn back before I make to leave.

The thing that bothers me about Atlas is his lack of a conscience. He didn't seem to care for Ginny's hesitance, or the fact that any of these things used to be people at all. Granted, maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm just not cold enough yet for this place; but it doesn't sit right with me. However, if he _did _have something to do with what happened on that tape . . .

"_Angels. I hear them!"_

I hear another voice from the doorway behind me. Not the rasp of a Splicer, but the rosy chirp of a little girl. Now killing adults is one thing but . . .no. I wouldn't stoop that low.

I duck into the shadows behind the banister, the corpse of the woman I just killed still laying on the floor. Surely they'll know someone's in here if she's dead…I wonder if she's smart enough to make these kind of assumptions.

I stay pressed into the shadows, and watch as the door is propped open. Someone must be holding a light, because the whole hallway behind the glass doors is lit up a bright, sickly yellow.

From the light and through the door comes exactly what I expect: A small girl waddling across the floor. From here, she doesn't look any kind of deformed. Her arms and legs are where they should be, none of the skin has bonded with her clothes. Somewhere inside of me is a small pit of warmth that ignites when I think that maybe she's been spared from the horrors of this societies drug use.

After looking around, she becomes satisfied and finds fascination with the corpse of the woman on the ground. Something inside me wants to walk over and take her away from this madness so she doesn't have to see it, but what she does next is more shocking than her very presence: in her other hand the light reveals a monstrous looking needle hooked up to a syringe. The bracket in which it sits makes it graspable like a gun, and before I can look away she's stabbed the thing into the chest of the corpse; multiple times in fact. All the while, she sings to herself, something about lollipops and angels.

The whole sight is nauseatingly nightmarish; a toddler humming politely, a smile on her pale cheeks as she stabs a dead body with a dirty shot. She's blissfully caught up in her own little world.

So much so that she doesn't see the Splicer coming very quietly from the shadows.

It's a man dressed it what must have once been a very expensive suit, carrying a rusted lead pipe in his scabby hand. Where the hell do they keep getting these things?

One part of his head is bowed inwards like he's already been in a scrape, but his dark eyes are fixed solely on the kid like a wolf. Honest to god I don't want anything to do with her while she's got that needle in her little hands, but if I don't do something now I'll never forgive myself. I move forwards, but the little girl luckily notices him first, withdrawing her needle and scuttling back on her hands and feet, whimpering pathetically.

"C'mere, little one. I ain't gonna hurtcha. All I wants that ADAM you've got there."

"It's _mine. I _found it." The girl sneers, getting to her feet and backing away. It's like running for the door hasn't even crossed her mind. I notice though that whoever had been holding the light outside the door must have disappeared because it's all too dark beyond the door.

"I know you aren't gonna make me take it from ya, now, right? C'mon, be a good girl-"

"MR-!" The little girl screams, and right before the man can take a swing with his pipe I jump out of the shadows, putting Ginny's training to use.

"_One. Two._" The motions run through my mind, falling from my hands like a machine; One good shot to electrocute him, and one bullet from the pistol straight through his brain. The man twitches for a few seconds, but ultimately crumples, jaw falling open in an eternal look of surprise.

With the heavy thud on the ground, my heart skips a beat, breath failing me again. I don't think I'm ever going to get used to this. Shaking my thoughts clear, I look around in the dim light and stumble back a few feet, not wanting to knock over the little thing near my shoes.

The little girl, previously cowering, is petrified of me, and makes a dash in the other direction. Catching the back of her dress gently, I pick her up in my arms. What good is a toddler anyway to these people besides . . .I don't even want to think about it.

She's a tiny thing: large wide eyes that out-size everything else on the face including the trembling lips and upturned nose.

"Jack, what ze _hell _are you doing? Put zat sing _down_!" Ginny gasps suddenly, her voice dropping to a trembling whisper. She just comes out of literally nowhere, causing me to jump about a foot in the air.

"Ginny? When . . . thing? What are you talking about . . .she's just a little kid! Look!" I bring the kid over into the light, attempting to maneuver the girl to Ginny's view, but she's suddenly putting up quite the fight. Struggling to escape my arms, she sinks her teeth into my unaltered hand, causing me to bite my lip to hold back a curse. As suddenly as the light hits her in full, I notice what Ginny means. Something isn't right about the kid: The pallor is slightly off, a sickly green, and beneath her stringy blonde hair her eyes have a strange, unsettling glow about them . . .

"Jack, I am serious, put zat sing down bef-"

A loud ear-piercing shriek fills the room. She's screaming bloody murder, and I accidentally drop the tiny girl out of shock. She slips from my grasp, landing on the floor like a cat and taking off running out the door into the next room towards where I had seen the light a few minutes ago. More power to her if she gets there before being attacked again.

"What the hell was _that_ about?" I say grumpily, rubbing my temple to sooth the pain of a newly throbbing headache. "You and I saved her life . . .what kind of thanks is that?"

Ginny doesn't even answer me. She's grabbing my wrist and attempting to yank me out in the opposite direction. Angry, I dig my feet in, demanding explanation. As if on cue, the radios on our hips fizzle to life.

"Ginny? Jack? Anyone? Do you read? I'm not too far from you; you might wanna get a move on. Someone's gone and upset one of Ryan's little heathens." Ryan . . .my first thought is daughters. Maybe they're his kids? I never assumed he might be still alive; not after hearing that tape.

"Zat would be Jack." Ginny passes the blame bitterly, and I glare. So much for a friendship if she's just gonna throw me under the bus. It was an accident! No harm done at least!

"Christ, lad, what were you thinkin' pickin' that little hellspawn up?" Atlas asks like I've just done something incredibly stupid. This isn't helping his case on the conscience issue.

"Don't look at me like that she _looked _like-"

Suddenly all conversation in the room is ceased.

A loud groan has come from the next room, accompanied by the sound of a couple of mechanical whirs and breaking china.

That can't be good.

Ginny has gone pale in the face.

"Ohhh you've rattled the hornet's nest now, boyo . . ." Atlas says darkly.

Whatever's behind that door has footsteps so large that it's causing the already faulty wiring to flicker, and it's heading in our direction. Suddenly I feel Ginny's urgency. "Get out of there before-"

Before Atlas can finish, we both jump a foot in the air as something comes barreling through the fabric-covered doors of the Kashmir, knocking the wooden slabs clean off their hinges and smashing the glass panes.

It's officially the ugliest and scariest thing I've ever seen in my life. Trust me, this includes the Splicers.

The angry thing towers over us both, a hulking mass of metal and rotting rubber. It's got two arms and two legs . . .or rather two legs, one arm, and another appendage whose gloved hand has been replaced with a crude drill tip the size of a full grown man, if not bigger. Its "head" is a massive dome shape, lit up by five porthole lights that are currently shining an angry, vibrant red.

Most surprisingly, that little girl that I'd saved from the Splicer attack is cowering behind its leg, pointing at the two of us accusingly. "Kill 'em, Mr. B! Kill the bad people!"

Well now it makes sense.

Ginny's scream is the only signal I need.

"RUN!"


	6. Mutual Trust

Hello guys! Thank you so much for being patient, and for all the wonderful reviews. They make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. :P I've finally finished a new chapter. Life has been chewing my heels recently, but now that I'm all caught up on everything I found the time to tie this together this morning. Hopefully it won't be nearly as long waiting for the next one. :D

A quick note: These first chapters have followed the game more than I intended them to, but the next chapter should deviate nicely to form a good balance of both, so you definitely have something interesting to look forward to! :)

* * *

Ginny has the right idea.

With only two pistols and electric plasmids to our name, running is _the_ best chance of survival. If we can get out of harm's way or at least the "Big Daddy's" reach, it could leave us alone. The funny thing is it seems like it's _protecting_ the little girl . . .

"If we don't threaten her will it leave?" I shout over the noise behind us as I follow Ginny as fast I can. Our

"N-NO. DON'T STOP." Ginny pants, trying to shoot behind her. The weapon isn't having much effect from the sounds of the ricocheting of bullets off metal.

As I hear the coos of the little girl behind us, it dawns on me that her demand for blood is driving the creature crazy, sending it barreling after us.

"ATLAS!" Ginny shrieks into her speaker, moving as fast as her legs will carry her. I can hear the massive creature pursuing us over my shoulder and I'm horrified to report that contrary to its deceptive appearance, this thing is _fast_.

"Shit, lass, hang on, I'm lookin' for a way to pull you outta there!" Atlas cries, audible crashes and paper flutters coming from his own end of the radio. "Go back! Go back the way you came, take the hatch!"

On a dime we both veer to the left, the enormous walking pile of metal on our heels.

"At-ATLAS! IT WON'T OPEN!" Ginny shrieks in panic, trying desperately to work the switch to the SECURIS hatch. It's jammed into place though, and not even the plasmids are fixing it. "WHY WON'T IT OPEN?"

"Christ, it looks like we're locked down-"

The next five seconds move by in slow motion for my mind. Atlas's yells, Ginny's shrieks, the angry growling of the Big Daddy; my mind finally seems to get a grasp on the situation, and it kicks into overdrive.

"We've gotta kill it! SPLIT UP!" I shout at her over the roar of the angry monster. Not that I have a plot or anything, but it's obvious now Big Daddy is relentless, and it's going to be the only way to stop its rampage. It's hard to think when your mind is in "run or die" mode.

Though Ginny's brown eyes look widely at me like I'm a psychopath, she does as instructed and heads in the opposite direction. For a split second, the Big Daddy stops in its tracks, looking at her and then me, like it can't decide where to go.

"Kill the bad man, Bubbles!"

Okay, I'm really starting to despise that little girl.

Without another thought the Big Daddy comes lumbering in my direction, Ginny all but forgotten in its new directive.

I have to hand it to the Big Daddy; it's design and concept. What exactly its original purpose is, I don't know, but it is ruthlessly efficient. Every thrust, every punch, every step requires a long-length dive out of the way, my defensive maneuvers pushing my body to its limits to avoid being impaled. I can only barely see Ginny's panicking figure in the shadow, waving a gun and deciding whether to shoot.

My mind races at the speed of light to untangle a plan, but suddenly the wind is knocked out of me before I can convey anything to Ginny. Seeing the attack of the monster too late, I'm whisked straight up off the ground in its gloved hand. Even without a mouth it roars at me, trembling with fury. Down below the little girl is jumping up and down at its feet. "Get'im Mister B!" I start making a desperate fight to free myself as the drill roars to life on its arm, deafeningly loud in my ears.

"JACK!" Ginny cries in horror, running back in my direction with a look of vengeance on her face. She wants to aim the gun, but I make too easy of a turkey-shoot target as I'm flying around in the air. Ginny's one shot aggravates the monstrosity, and thankfully it tosses me aside like a ragdoll, sailing me through the air into the nearest table with a crash. Ginny comes sprinting towards me, but I wave her away. A plan's forming in my mind, and it involves me not being incapacitated for at least ten seconds.

"DRAW IT OFF!" I shout to her, and although confused, she swallows her nerves and fires a shot from her pistol.

"HEY! OVER HERE YOU ST-" Ginny takes off as fast as she can in the other direction, the monster (with the little girl on its back) lumbering after her the moment she draws attention to herself. The Little Sister gives a bloodlust look to me, but doesn't have much say in her big friend's anger-filled rampage.

"I hope you've got a plan, boyo; them bastards don't fall easy." Atlas panics from the radio. Tracking the monster with my eyes, I spot what might be its weakness on its back.

In essence it's something of a giant scuba suit. There's something inside the suit that's living, I'm guessing, but on the back is a giant pack with wires and tubes leading into it. It must be supplying something . . .

Without a second thought I barge forwards, using all my strength to jump and land on the back of the hard cased, slippery back of our adversary.

"JACK WHAT ZE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!" Ginny splutters loudly at me, and I don't answer her in the midst of my work. I start yanking as hard as I can at the tubes, trying wrenching them loose. It's not an easy job as the Big Daddy, already slick with water and slime and rust, is now stumbling in circles, reaching back to try and pick me off. The drill bit comes far too close for my comfort, breeze ruffling my hair as it passes. His little girl is beating me over the head, screaming at me. "GET OFF! HE'S MINE!"

Not wanting to risk electrocution, I place the barrel of my pistol in the groove of one of the tubes and pull the trigger. It splits apart, liquid spewing into my face, and a tug on the wires does the job after the Big Daddy plucks me from its back, the now weakened pipe still in my hands.

The effect is instantaneous. A foul orange rusty liquid spews from the back of the monster, causing it to let off a higher pitched moan.

"GINNY SHOOT! SHOOT IT!" I scream, and seeing my plan of action she does as she's told, aiming for the limbs rather than the head.

The little girl falls off the back of the beast, hitting the ground in a panic, and she struggles to stay out from under the feet of her guardian as he stumbles from Ginny's bullets. I let go of the monsters back and use a burst of electricity from my plasmid hand to stun the Big Daddy to a standstill, its dome lights now flickering.

Ginny streaks out of the way just as the lights in the head go to darkness, the body of the Big Daddy falling forwards with a massive thud; the boards underneath it crack under the weight, and the silence slowly settles, leaving Ginny and I in silence.

Without a word, I find my legs give way from underneath me and I collapse into a sitting position. Ginny's words are muddled.

This is what they call shock.

A couple deep breaths and then my mind is racing, hands shaking. I almost died. Had I been awake through the plane crash I'm sure I would have felt the aftermath too, but I swear I saw my life flash before my eyes.

Everything up to now has seemed like a nightmare, and part of my brain wants to believe I'm imagining things.

I'm god knows how many miles from home; from the surface.

A city on the ocean floor? In what world is this reality? And yet, here it is. Not only that, but it's dead, suffocated, leaving nothing but the half-dead in its wake. The sick, the dying, possessed children, and scuba-suited monsters.

Ginny sprints over to me, running hands through her hair as she catches her breath. I look at her sheepishly from underneath a coating of orange Big Daddy liquid, and after giving me a huge slap on the side of the head, she gives me a tight hug. A _hug._

"You are ze single stupidest boy I've met . . .but one 'ellova partner . . .Jack." she says admittedly, calling me by my actual name. The sound of someone else acknowledging me makes the world a little more real and steady under my feet.

"You aren't so bad yourself." I smile tiredly, immediately grimacing at the motor oil taste of the slime on my lips. I wipe my face on my jumper, taking a few deep breaths to slow my heart rate back to normal. I lay back on the floor, closing my eyes in disbelief. Why do I have a feeling things are only going to get stranger from here?

"Why . . .why is that thing walking around own here. Why would you even need it?!"

The only thing I can think is that maybe it takes care of the Splicers. No way was that thing walking around while sane people lived here . . .was it?

Ginny wipes sweat from her forehead, hidden memories clouding her eyes again, separating us. "The little girl collects the ADAM. The Big Daddy protects his child."

So that's a little bit of the puzzle solved . . .

"The girls . . ." A large chunk of the mystery comes to light, turning my stomach. The Splicers are drug addicts. No doubt the remaining population tried to find a way to contain it. If it were desperate times, maybe it called for desperate measures; but _children_? It's risky thinking I might be able to fight a Splicer off on my own and I'm a full grown man. I guess that's what the Big Daddy's are for. No one in their right mind would try to go near it . . .then again, the Splicers a_ren't . . ._

I close my eyes, my head starting to spin. The immensity of the problems that have befallen Rapture has started to make me dizzy.

Right now I can only imagine how much the "Splicers" had to inject to end up looking like something that came out of a garbage disposal . . .

And then something sticks in my brain.

"Didn't we just use this stuff?" All of a sudden I have a vision of my skin melting and my mind turning to mush, and my face contorts in horror. "How-"

"We do not use it enough to be 'armed. Once or twice does ze trick for us. Just enough to fight." Ginny's explanation is so nonchalant it's scary. My mind is nowhere near at ease, but at least I know I'm not gonna get sick straight away.

"Oi. Either of you two see where the Little Sister got off to? Don't lose her, we're going to need her." Atlas's serious bur comes over the radio, reminding me that our faceless guide is still here.

His notion brings to the forefront of my mind a small whimpering sound I didn't notice underneath our conversation.

"Mr. B . . ._please _get up. _Please_ . . ." Some back corner of my heart is stabbed by the wounded cry of the kid, knowing that I caused that pain. Granted, it was self-defense! I'd have been a bloody pulp on the wall and then where would I be?

Ginny, without looking at me, takes a few steps towards the little girl, trying not to appear intimidating, but the moment she gets within five feet, the "Sister", as Atlas named her, I see disappear into the next room as fast as her little legs can carry her.

"Would you kindly get after her?" Atlas demands, and I barrel through the doors into the neighboring room of the Kashmir, Ginny hot on my heels.

"NO!" Ginny and I cry at the same time. For a moment I think we've reached the scene a split second too late. The girl has run straight into the clutches of another drug-ridden woman whose pipe-wielding hand is raised in offense, the tiny girl cowering on the floor.

Before either Ginny or I can fire, the Splicer falls to the ground, a pool of blood slowly growing from the chest. Who-

"KEEP AWAY FROM HER!" An angry, unslurred voice comes from the upper corners of the room, words mixing with the reverb from the loud shotgun bullet that was just fired.

"HEY! Are you two alright?" Atlas asks frantically, fearing the worst. Ginny has her gun trained in the direction of the shot, legs spread in defense.

"Yeah-"

"Do not touch _mein _little one!"

Sure enough, I follow the trajectory of the bullet back up to one of the balcony up above.

On the mezzanine above, there is a womanly figure dressed in a dark fuchsia frock standing just outside one of the cracked-windowed doors. I can't see the silhouette well, but she isn't damaged enough to be a drug-eaten Splicer (although she looks angrier than some of the worst I've come across yet). Most shockingly, the bony woman holds a large shotgun in her hand as she glares down at us, threatening to shoot again. My partner looks so taken by surprise that she lowers her gun in confusion, eyebrows raised.

"Oh great." Atlas groans from the radio. "Tenenbaum, you stay out of this!"

"Listen to me, boyo. You need what that littl'n is carryin'. You need the ADAM."

Atlas makes a point. ADAM could be traded for more plasmids which could give us a fast escape out of this place. "Get that seaslug out for the ADAM by-"

Ginny's short cry of disgust covers Atlas's words. "Atlas, are you mad? She is . . ."

"What? She's what? A little girl? Look at that thing. It's beyond saving."

Atlas's mood-swings rub me the wrong way. Sure, he's a family man, and sure, he's trying to keep the pair of us out of harm's way, but at what cost? If he had the capability to rescue them would we still be subject to his guidance? He presents a nice face and maybe he's a good guy at heart but there's no overlooking that dangerous shadow he stands in.

Ginny's lips pull themselves into a thin line as she tries to hold back reaction for the "child" on the floor, scratching her hair in exasperation. The child's skin looks as though it might be rotting in some places, chunks of hair missing, and she's literally growling at me in fear as she backs away, her back now against the wall.

"_Nein_!" The femme-intruder's voice is much closer the second time around, and I realize that she is talking over our radio, just as Atlas has been doing. She must have something hacking the transmission like the bathysphere radio did. "Tenenbaum" reaches into her pocket and tosses something at us that Ginny manages to save from hitting the floor. It's a vial of liquid a little darker than the color of the ADAM Ginny had earlier. Between heavy breaths, a thick, German accent pleads with me over the radio waves.

"This plasmid vill save the child, I designed it myself . . . restore her to health . . .please have heart. I vill make it worth your vhile."

"Jack, don't be daft-" Atlas starts to argue, furious at the idea of negotiation.

"Atlas-" Ginny interjects bitterly, not sure where to stand.

The words of the others are lost in the little girl's eyes. I can't focus while she's staring at me like that.

The little girl, that little wiry skeletal frame, she's only six or seven. There's no denying she's grotesque, yes, but I can see even past that strange glow in those eyes that she was once all too human. Back pressed up again the wall with a trembling lip, she was once a kid, just like the four of us. I don't know how she got like this, anything about her creation. I'm sure it's not a pretty story, but that doesn't stop me from thinking back and forth.

As much as I hate to admit it, Atlas has a point; the girl's trapped. There wouldn't be a chase, and I could easily outrun any proper shot this "Tenenbaum" could dish out; but there's a matter of conscience. The act of killing in itself is just terrible, but killing a child is a new level that I'm not sure I'd be able to live with.

Finally, I can't help but think although I've been too late to save most of the people in this madhouse . . .maybe for once I can salvage rather than destroy; just to prove that I'm not going to stoop to their level.

With everyone's eyes on me, I walk forwards. There's an inhale of breath from all three members of my audience as I kneel down, holding a hand out.

For about five seconds, the kid seems to consider my actions; rather than rush at her angrily, I've given her a choice which she eventually declines, backing farther to the wall.

Part of me wants to get it over with, but my heart is overruling my head. I can't do it.

Trying not to appear intimidating, I inch forwards and lift her up into my arms where she does her absolute best to push away from me in a panic.

"You are good man." I can hear the relief in the woman's voice, and somehow I know I've made the right choice, even past Atlas's groan on the radio. I unscrew the cap on the plasmid carefully, and as gently as I can I press the needle into the girl's tiny forearm, causing her to freeze and look at me with utter surprise before going limp in my arms, her eyes closing.

For a moment my heart stops; I think I've killed her. Even in this dim light, though, I can see the instantaneous effect. The pallor seeps back into her skin, turning her flesh a healthy peach color. Tufts of hair soften and become shiny and healthy, and when she opens her eyes, instead of the unsettling glow they once held, they are a pleasant green that look at me without contempt.

"You saved me." Her voice isn't distorted either. It's a tiny fluted gasp. She's shaking, looking at me like she doesn't know whether to be happy or scared.

"And you owe me one." I say with a short smile. I set her back down on the ground, and she gives me a short, polite curtsy.

"Thank you, mister." And without another word, she takes off into the darkness.

"To the vent, _mein kleine_, hurry." Tenenbaum encourages down to the child, and before long she's completely out of sight.

There's an awkward silence. Only Ginny stares at me, not exactly a look of happiness, but more of a look of approval. She knows she can expect more from me than savage tactic.

"Fine. Let her go. It's not my fight. I've got my own family to save." Atlas says moodily.

"You can easily judge character of one by how he treats those who can do nothing for him. A real man has humanity. . ." The woman on the end of the radio says bitterly to Atlas.

"Oi, don't you go there, I'm a _man_ on his wit's end trying to save my family from this hellhole. And what are you doing? Starting a collection of little misfits, probably for another experiment. It's all fun and games until someone pulls the rug from under you. There's a stark difference between mercy and naiveté, miss." Atlas says flatly. The eye-roll is so obvious in his voice it's ridiculous.

Ginny asks into her own radio. Between the two of us we have a four way conversation on the radio system.

"Brigid Tenenbaum. _Doctor _Tenenbaum."

"Forget the formalities, Doc, you c_reated _those little monsters." Atlas immediately announces, and suddenly I have a little less warmth for the woman, even if I know nothing about her.

"So he was right then." I say shortly. "Why even bother asking me to save her?"

"I am repaying my debt to little ones." There's a form of sincere regret in her voice. I know there's more to this story, and I intend to get it, but I have bigger things on my plate right now. The doctor stiffens up on the balcony, crossing her arms. "I have made bad choices, but hope to correct them before my time is over." Tenenbaum admits. "I vish them no harm. I vatch over them. And for your kindness I vill make it vorth the vhile as I have promised. I vill be in touch."

With that, both the voice and the figure of Dr. Tenenbaum disappear.

"Jack, listen to me. I know you want everythin' to be fine and dandy, but it's plain as the ocean is blue that it's _not_. We can't go on pretendin' like it is, lad." The Irishman's voice grates in my ears like a fly's buzz.

"Atlas did it ever occur to you zat maybe ze way to change it all is _by_ changing?" Ginny says softly. Though the volume of her voice is softer her fire has returned. "If we start salvaging what we 'ave left maybe we can fix _some_sing."

"I won't say no to that, lass. I just hope your hearts lie in a smart place. Give Rapture an inch she'll take you a mile." He says this with a certain conviction like he's had the misfortune of first-hand experience. "Alright, enough laggin'. You've got to get to Neptune's Bounty quickly, I'm not far from it meself. Something's got the system bugged, we're still in lockdown, but there's a way to the bulkhead on the upper floor." The radio fizzles out, leaving us alone with the corpse of the Splicer. Ginny's face, once taut with tension now appears older in the reflection of the water outside, forty rather than sixteen. I'm starting to feel ragged myself.

"Let's get a move on before we get more company." I say flatly, any heart I had leaving me. Atlas's frustration and my own exhaustion and hunger are starting to get to me.

The sticky air's making me itchy and I'm noticeably irritable. Unfortunately, any kind of painkillers seem to be few and far in between in this freak show, so I'm on my own; mentally anyway. I turn to head for the stairs and Ginny pulls me back.

"We should probably restock before we 'ead out, _oui_?"

I sigh, pushing on my temple. Something about her sympathetic tone is rubbing me the wrong way . . .what is going _on_ with me? Anybody would be tense in my situation, but I feel like something's nagging me.

"Probably. I have a couple left." I agree, handing her a few shots I'd found from the Splicer's pocket on the floor. In return, Ginny tosses me the syringe with a little bit of plasmid solution left in it. I can't bring myself to stab my own itching flesh at the moment, so I pocket the vial. Ginny starts to ask, but I shoot her a look. "On the way."

Ginny frowns slightly in suspicion, but seems to let it slide for now. For once, I'm the one taking the lead as I storm up the stairs into the darkness.

The next floor of the dilapidated restaurant, thankfully, isn't any more eventful than the first. In fact, it's surprisingly devoid of Splicers, Big Daddy's, Little Sisters, or the like; just the ghosts of the mysterious disaster which befell this once beautiful atmosphere.

Most of the jog is spent in silence. The darkness of the place we find ourselves in is so dense and almost sad it seems wrong to mar it with casual conversation. It's more like a graveyard to me than an abandoned restaurant. How many people lost their lives here?

At least twice I consider bringing up the Atlas mystery; why and how was he involved with the riotous scene played over the tape I found earlier. I had abandoned the AccuVox back after the Big Daddy had ambushed us, and going back to find it now would be a suicide mission. I might as well just leave it for now. I don't think I could convince Ginny, or myself for that matter, that Atlas wasn't trustworthy; all I'm left with is the strange claustrophobia the thick air is causing my skin and my irritable attitude.

"It's through here." Ginny says quietly, pointing to the restrooms, clearly marked with a sign reading _DAMES. _Across the wall there is another sign reading _GENTS. _I would ask why she had chosen the women's bathroom, but then I see this is the one which is placed again the boundary rather than the middle of the restaurant. If there was any chance of a detoured exit, it would be here.

Practically glued to each other's hips, Ginny and I ease our way quietly into the restroom.

The place is an absolute wreck. The stall doors are hanging from their hinges, sinks bloodied and cracked (as are the mirrors), and the pipes are broken, flooding the floor up to our ankles with frigid water that only makes the stickiness of my skin feel even worse.

"Aha." Sure enough, there is a massive hole in the brick work, giving us access to the next room where the exit to Neptune's Bounty lies ahead.

Just as Ginny makes to step forwards, something flashes in my peripheral vision. I have just enough time to yank Ginny back and fire a shot at the Splicer standing near the wall.

"Jack! 'ave you gone mental?! You're going to attract attention!" Ginny angrily pulls away from me, looking at me like I've lost my mind.

"Don't-" I pull her back, now seeing the source of the noise. "Did you not . . .there's someone there! Look!"

A shadow stands at the broken, cracked sink. It's a female figure, and she's frantically scrubbing her face.

"Oh god. I'm all Spliced up. Too spliced, _TOO SPLICED. No _one's going to want me now." she sobs, throwing herself over the sink miserably. I can hear her clear as day, and her caterwauling is going to signal any ghouls lurking nearby, but a part of me is interested in why she hasn't attacked us.

"Jack, what are you _talking_ about?" Ginny seethes, looking at me in concern, eyebrows creased. She makes to walk into the bathroom, and wrenches her arm from my grasp when I pull her back. I look at the woman again . . .only to realize that what I'm looking at really _is _a shadow . . .more like a projection. She flickers momentarily, and the sobbing woman disappears into thin air, leaving no evidence of her existence.

"What…there was . . ."

"Jack, please do not go crazy on me, I need you 'ere." Ginny says seriously, edging her way carefully into the room. "Where was ze woman?"

"Ghost." I utter quietly.

"What." Ginny looks at me, arm dropped at her side in angry disbelief.

The idea is scary, but it's not the weirdest thing that's happened to me in the past twenty four hours.

"A ghost?" Ginny rounds on me, her small face looking up into mine with inquisitive dark eyes.

"Never . . .god, never mind. Just forget it." I say, growing angrier. Of course she wouldn't see it. It's probably just me. Who knows how long she's been here, my new unscarred mind is probably going to take a beating from all the madness. I flex my plasmid hand, frustration roiling inside me.

"Jack, what iz wrong wis you?" Ginny says angrily. The fire that I recognize from our first meeting is back, and it's got me feeling defensive. "Why are you behaving zis way?"

"Like _what _way, Ginny? Like the last sane man in the world? It's kinda lookin' that way, you know!" I say, nearly growling. I just want this to go away, the itching, the headache, the empty . . .empty feeling inside me.

And suddenly, the answer hits me over the head like a sack of bricks. I start scrabbling in my pockets until my hand encloses the little syringe that Ginny gave me earlier. Without even flinching in pain I jam it into my forearm, the warm, blue liquid causing my arm to tingle pleasantly. A wave of calm washes over me, and any irritability I had dissipates on the spot. The itching disappears, the headache is gone; the tight hug of the plasmid's energy in my arm is a welcome feeling.

The situation comes rushing back with brilliant clarity, and the first thing I notice is Ginny's pale face. All the anger and accusation has left it, and she looks genuinely scared.

"What?" I ask.

She purses her lips, holding something back she clearly wants to say.

"That's really immature if you're just going to-"

"You and I could both do well to practice moderation."

That statement hangs in the air for a couple of moments between the two of us, and I realize she's right.

No rational behavior is cured with drugs . . .the very first time I met Ginny she was chomping at the bit to take digs at me. The moment she refilled her plasmids, she was pleasantly calm. I don't know why I didn't see it before when almost every living thing around me is evidence.

Fear clenches my chest at the idea that the drugs might be so powerful they could cause an addiction on the spot, but there's peace in the fact that Ginny's with me.

"I'm sorry." I say genuinely.

"I am no better than you are, Jack. So, we are togezer on zis. You will monitor me, I will monitor you, and zis way we will not overdo it. We cannot afford to be foolish."

"Agreed." I say, and we meet in a soft handshake before continuing on. We wade through the water into the next room which looks like just a small spare space serving as the landing for the staircase down to a windowed room with two separate airlocks I can see through the roof.

One reads TO MEDICAL PAVILLION; the other TO NEPTUNE'S BOUNTY.

"That's it, kiddos. Get down there! I'm makin' my way to Neptune's Bounty now so we can chat face to face."

The thought excites me a little, if not just for the fact I'll know I can trust Atlas once I've seen him. Through that airlock is a bathysphere that'll take us straight to the surface, and I can put this nightmare behind me.

The pair of us clambers down the stairs excitedly like children on Christmas to the entrance of the airlock terminal. The first door gives way easily, but unfortunately the airlock to Neptune's Bounty seems jammed (or at least sounds the part as it lets out a groan and a clunk), but this doesn't stop Ginny; when she wants something, she's going to get it one way or another, I've learned.

"Careful there, lass, you don't want to set anything off."

Ginny smiles wryly as she pulls a couple of wires from the lever on the wall. "Zis is an easy one."

As Ginny works, I feel something ominous creeping up my spine. Maybe it's from standing still for too long, or I feel trapped, but something isn't right.

Suddenly, a very subtle, almost inaudible noise catches my attention. I turn around on my heel, gun drawn, but find no one behind me. The corridor before me is empty except for a lone dead camera on the wall and a couple of portraits of well-endowed former customers.

My eyes sweep over the blank area again, and are somehow drawn back to the camera on the wall. It's one of boxy design, a metallic box with an intricate little lens and a security light that are both darkened.

My mind starts churning. "Atlas. These cameras . . .the ones on the walls-"

"Dead, boyo. Long gone since the fall." he says simply. Ginny doesn't even pause in her work. Atlas sounds sure of himself, so unsettled as I may be, I start to turn back to Ginny, and freeze when I see what I had suspected before in my peripherals.

The "dead" camera shifts slightly with a tiny mechanical "_click", _moving in our direction. I knew it.

Suddenly tight in the chest, I nudge Ginny, who looks at me slightly irritated. "What?"

"The camera. It's moving." The thought makes Ginny stop momentarily and look over her shoulder at the device, which looks as dead as ever. Unmoving, unlit . . .but I know I wasn't imagining things.

"I think someone's watching us . . ."

"Jack, I know you are new to zis, but you have to stop jumping at everysing. Zese cameras are dead. We 'ave passed plenty of zem on ze way 'ere. We'd 'ave been dead by now had ze alarms been active." After a moment, she turns back to her work, and I don't take my eyes off the camera. I hold my eyes to the darkened optic, feeling as though I'm staring into the eyes of someone on the other end.

Without warning, the camera raises, optic expanding, and snaps into place with a loud "_pop". _In the next ten seconds, everything happens at once.

The hatch to the Neptune's Bounty airlock falls open, and as Ginny cries out in success, Atlas's voice echoes over it all.

"GET OUT OF THERE!"

Before I can comprehend anything, the camera illuminates, casting a bright glare on both Ginny and I. A piercing alarm cuts the air, causing us both to jump a mile in the air. I make to pull Ginny into the airlock, but the door snaps shut so fast I have time to just pull my feet out of the way. The other door that had been our entrance seals, leaving us trapped like rats in this little glass prison.

"Atlas, what 'appened?" Ginny asks frantically. It takes us two seconds to realize that she has a tight grip on my arm out of nerves, and we awkwardly separate as we await an answer.

"Someone's cut us off, I-I-I-_bzzt._" Even the radio broadcast goes down. Without warning, the lights in the terminal go out, leaving us in complete darkness. Next to me I feel Ginny resecure a grip around my arm, and I have to admit that in the darkness, I'm feeling sick. I don't know what could be five feet away with us in here.

Suddenly, the windows behind us have been shuttered, and a small projector much like the one I saw on my bathysphere trip down to this hell whirs to life. To my horror, a familiar face takes up all four windows.

"Atlas. _Atlas, _what is-"

"Genevieve, my dear. You never learn. I can't just allow you to leave. There's still so much more to be done here . . ."

In the ghostly light, Ginny's face is paler than the gray of the window screen, eyes wide as she swears to herself.

"And _you._" The voice of none other than Andrew Ryan himself is filtering into the room, and this time it's _not _a recording.

He's speaking directly to me, the ice in his voice chilling my blood.

He's still alive.

"Who are you?" The once cheery tone that welcomed me into this city now has me rooted to the spot with icy conviction as if he's caught me stealing from him.

"J-Jack. Wynand." I say, wondering if formalities could possibly break the ice his introduction formed.

"So, Jack, which one sent you, eh?" Ryan laughs as if he's teasing a naughty child.

"I . . .I don't . . ."

"The KGB? CIA?"

"I'm not-"

"Ryan you don't-" Ginny begins to assist the situation, frustrated.

"DON'T TELL ME WHAT I UNDERSTAND." Ryan's voice booms in our room, the noise shaking my core. Ginny stammers and then glares at the screen as if the man is standing right in front of us. As quickly as it came, the anger is gone and he quickly returns to his eerily calm demeanor. "Listen here_. _You have been warned, Jack Wynand.I don't know who sent you, but you can tell them Rapture isn't some sunken ship for the filthy to plunder. She is more alive than ever, and she will purge herself of impurities like _you._ Andrew Ryan isn't some fool who will stand to be pushed around by your "Big Brother", either."

"We are not scared of you." Ginny says icily, staring at the screen angrily. She's practically shaking, and while I admire her tenacity part of me thinks it isn't in our best interest to antagonize the guy. "My mozer and fahzer were not. You are nossing but a pasetic little man."

"And you are nothing but a spoiled child." Andrew Ryan scoffs. "Rapture has raised you, nurtured you, and you turn your back on her, just like those filthy turncoats I found slithering around in the medical sector. Shameful, siding with the intruder. So be it." The voice lowers an octave ominously. "Be warned, Rapture shows no pity to those who only live for themselves. If you continue to side with this parasite punishment will have to be carried out."

"_There are others…" _Ginny says almost inaudibly, looking at the ground in wonder. I only have a split second to analyze what that means before-

_THUD._

Something slams with full force against the window of the terminal as the projector flickers out.

"Jack, what is zat . . ." Ginny utters quietly, not wanting to show fear to our host.

"I . . ." The voices start to echo from outside: Women, men, old, young. They number in the tens, twenties, thirties . . .there's a crowd . . .no, a _hoard,_ various deformities distorted even more in the horrible lighting. They're slamming into the doors, scraping knives on the windows, ugly faces leering at us, shouting unintelligible things. The lockdown is broken in a few seconds, the Medical Pavillion airlock falling open with a loud bang.

"Get your asses into that lock. Now." Atlas's voice comes sharp over the radio. "We're going to Medical."


	7. UPDATEESSSS

Hey guys!

Just wanted to come back and say the story is not dead! :)

I've had some writers block, college, work, travel, everything in between. I've got about three chapters written but I'm doing some final adjustments, so it will resume within the week!

Thanks for sticking around. :)

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